This Is Not A Lassiet
by Loafer
Summary: COMPLETE. Lassiter going undercover causes a change in his relationship with Karen Vick. Yes, it's true: I said VICK, not Juliet. See, I CAN write things other than Lassiet. I CAN!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **"noun: a statement, document, or assertion that disclaims responsibility, affiliation, etc.; disavowal; denial"—in other words, I claim no ownership of _**psych**_.

**Rating**: T

**Summary/note/thing**: This story comes to you because of 1)** Lawson227**, whose two marvelous Karlton tales inspired me to write my own (YES, that's RIGHT, Lassiet-haters: this really is NOT a Lassiet!) and 2) My current desktop wallpaper, which features an especially delectable bearded Tim Omundson. The plot? Lassiter going undercover causes a change in his relationship with Karen Vick.

**Note**: while searching for an appropriate law enforcement agency, I discovered the fictional California Bureau of Investigation used in _The Mentalist_, so I'm stealing that, too.

'**Nother note**: I wanted to wait until Lawson's current lovely Karlton (_Safety In Numbers_) was finished to begin posting this, but she essentially harangued me into obeying her whim. So. Here.

. . . .

. . .

. . . .

. . .

"Well, I won't keep you," he said, and there was something in the quality of his voice which made Karen think ending the call now would be wrong… and that she'd regret it.

"You're not keeping me. Iris is with her father this week so I'm not at the mercy of a six-year-old."

He paused. "What… what's she like?"

The question seemed one of genuine curiosity, and Karen was oddly moved by it. By the fact that _he_ was the one asking.

"She's a mini-me, my ex used to say. She's no-nonsense about what she wants, usually when it's something there's no way in hell she's going to get. But she is _such_ a squooshy little girl about everything else, from ponies to teddy bears to big-eyed dolls in pretty dresses."

"Is that also like you?" He sounded amused.

Karen had to laugh. "Well, it's nothing you'll ever see from me at work, but maybe, just a little. I have been known to tear up at Hallmark commercials."

"She was beautiful," he said abruptly. "When she was born."

She remembered looking at him as he held Iris—held her before even she did, let alone her husband—and seeing the wonder on his face, in his startled blue eyes.

_That was kind of_ _beautiful too_, she wanted to say. "I'm sorry I was so rough on you, you know."

Carlton laughed. "You were in pain and I was out of my league. Yelling at you was a stupid move. I think we can call it a draw."

"Nonetheless, I appreciated you being there, staying with me even though you so _desperately_ wanted to run like hell."

"That was only because it was you. My boss. Not because you were having a baby. I mean, of course no one _wants_ to watch a woman have a baby; good Lord, I don't know how doctors and nurses do it, but mainly I was freaked because you were my boss. My boss who… didn't like me very much. It was the last place any man was going to feel comfortable."

She thought about that time in their professional relationship and he was right, except she hadn't disliked him; she'd merely been wary of him. "I came into the job with a lot of strikes against me. Woman, pregnant, not your mentor, not part of the old school mentality. I couldn't afford to like _anyone_."

"It didn't help that I put a huge black mark on my own record," he said slowly.

He meant the outing of his affair with his former partner. But actually, that admittedly unprofessional and problematic little issue had served to humanize him. She'd known about his hard-ass reputation before stepping in as Interim Chief, and they'd crossed paths a few times in normal police work before she came to power. Finding out that the unbending, unyielding, by-the-book and trigger-happy detective once described to her as a "crime-fighting robot" was struggling with a failing marriage and yet able to find some measure of intimacy—however doomed, however inappropriate—had allowed her to see him as a person beyond his reputation. Besides, she knew something of Lucinda Barry indirectly, and as she understood it, for Lucinda to have gotten involved with her partner meant there was something there which others might not be able to readily see. Or, more accurately, be _allowed_ to see.

"Those were interesting and complicated times," she said just as slowly. "We've all come a long way in terms of how we relate to each other and even how we do our jobs. I'm happy with the way you do yours, Carlton. Well, I _could_ stand fewer discharges of your weapon."

"I'll work on it." He was wry more than defensive, and this too was a measure of how much things had changed over the years. "I only have two guns at home now, by the way."

"Down from eight! I _am_ impressed."

"So am I, actually. I think maybe the therapy I've been forced to undergo now and then has actually helped me a little. I'll never admit that at the station, of course."

"Understood," she said with a laugh. "It'll be our secret."

"Thank you. I can't have anyone thinking I've gone soft." Carlton cleared his throat. "Anyway, I guess I'd better let you go. I'll check in tomorrow, unless you don't—"

"No, tomorrow's fine," she interrupted. "I want to hear what's going on from you instead of filtered through Decker."

"He's a good guy," Carlton assured her.

"I know, but he's not you." It occurred to her this sounded… well, so what? "He doesn't know you like I do." _Do _I_ know you at all?_ "I trust my Lassiter-translation skills better than his."

"You should," he admitted. "Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow."

_Good_, she thought, and then… _but why am I more interested in talking to you than getting your report?_

_Don't think about it, Karen. Just let it go._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The California Bureau of Investigation had sent two agents to talk to Karen a few weeks back. Agent Penn Decker had gotten right to the point: they wanted to borrow Carlton Lassiter for a long-term undercover operation.

She immediately had a very bad feeling about it and told them plainly that while she could vouch for Detective Lassiter's excellence in nearly every aspect of police work, even _he_ wouldn't list undercover assignments as one of his strengths.

Agent Decker was not impressed with either her logic or her personal experience with Lassiter. "Chief Vick, the CBI doesn't request assistance from local authorities without doing its homework first. We need a crack shot, a fisherman, someone who knows the woods, someone who _isn't_ known to the locals, and oh yeah, a damn good cop. Your head detective fits that description."

The assignment was deceptively simple: they wanted a man to occupy a cabin in the forest and keep an eye on their targets, who were known to be running a drug operation nearby. All he had to do was observe, fish like he knew how, not interact with anyone, and, you know, skulk around at night on the property of the suspects, taking photos, collecting data, eavesdropping, all that good stuff. They'd been watching the targets for a while but needed someone closer, someone the targets had no reason to see as a threat. Once he could give them a clear, up-close picture of their general operations, manpower and schedules, they could move in.

Karen quite reasonably asked why they couldn't put one of their own men in place, and why—if they had all this data already—they didn't just move on the targets now.

Here, Decker was reluctant to admit the truth: they suspected one of their own was tipping off the targets. He and his partner— Agent Donnell, sitting silently at his side—were the only two agents in their regional office outside of its director who knew they were here after Lassiter.

"He's going undercover, and frankly, so are we, from our own people."

She pursed her lips, because _this_ was the heart of the matter. "You also want him to find out who the targets' inside man is."

"Well, yes."

"Won't that person check Lassiter out in return? With more resources than the average person? In other words," she asked icily, "aren't you making it more dangerous for my detective, if _you_ don't even know who he can trust on _our_ side?"

Decker had the grace look slightly abashed, but not for long. "We will be ready to take him out of there the moment it becomes necessary. Besides that, we have an excellent background story and accompanying documentation prepared and with all due respect, Chief, it'll have to be Lassiter himself who makes the call."

Jurisdictionally, they had bigger guns than she did, so despite her misgivings, Lassiter was brought in, told of the mission, and naturally—as if there were any doubt—accepted.

She knew better than to try to talk him out of it, but she did take him aside in the days which followed to advise him to go easy on the 'acting' when he did encounter others, and use his poker face for everything else.

Juliet had similar concerns, and wasn't comfortable that Karen couldn't step in and stop this. She admitted to having voiced her objections to Lassiter, but he would not change his mind.

And now, a month later, things seemed to be going pretty well.

He had taken up residence in a secluded rental cabin on property close to the targets' land. When he wasn't fishing, he walked the property in daylight often enough to know it by heart when he walked it in darkness. He was collecting the desired information about manpower and layout of the operation the CBI wanted to take down, and so far hadn't seemed to attract any undue attention, although he had set various little traps which established that the targets were also scoping _him_ out.

Checking in with Decker and Donnell daily, he had originally only called Karen once every few days for a businesslike rundown of his activities, but today, late in the third week, sounding relaxed, he'd commented as to the beauty and peace of the woods, and it had led to the most casual conversation they'd ever had.

She had been on her way out of the station when Lassiter called her cell, and ended up sitting in her parked car… _chatting_.

And… enjoying it.

Who _chatted_ anymore?

She'd been divorced most of a year, but even before that, when she thought she was happy in her flat-lining marriage, there was work, there was Iris, and there was sleep. There could have been more and once there _had_ been more, but about the time she figured out her husband had totally lost interest in preserving the marriage, she lost her energy to fight for it. They shared custody of Iris, who was taking it well enough (though who really knew?).

It was starting to get boring, being A Divorced Woman. The novelty had definitely worn off, and it wasn't all that much fun to begin with.

Maybe talking to Carlton about nothing in particular was just a little tonic, she decided; nothing wrong with a little tonic.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She was already at home when he called the next night. Standing in front of the fridge contemplating what frou-frou delicacy to have for dinner—tuna salad, leftover Chinese, or maybe go crazy and nuke a frozen chicken and pasta dish?—she decided popcorn was the answer.

But the phone rang first, and she snatched it up, surprised at how much she hoped it was him and not a call back to work.

"Karen," he said, almost apologetically. "You're probably at home. I was going to call earlier but my dinghy sprung a mystery leak, and so my check-in with Decker took longer."

"I'm home but that's good. Less distraction." She grabbed the container of tuna salad and a fork and carried them to the table, where she put her feet up on one of the chairs to get comfortable. "What was up with the boat?"

"Pretty sure the leak was manmade," he said flatly. "It probably means they needed to be sure I wouldn't float their way today or tomorrow."

Karen felt a prickling down her spine. "So you'll be looking around _tonight_, I presume."

"Yeah. There's been more activity over there for a few days."

"They could be watching you watching them." She didn't like it.

"It feels more preventative than threatening. I know they've been around here snooping while I'm out fishing, but there hasn't been anything to find and I've been damn antisocial to boot. I think they just want me either staying on my own property, or driving off into town to see about repairing the boat."

"You have to be careful," she reminded him.

She could almost see him rolling his eyes. "I will be. There are times when it's good to be as paranoid as I am, you know. Plus I probably look a little scary with this beard."

She'd forgotten about that. "You probably don't. I imagine you're as well-kept out there in the woods as you are here on the job."

Carlton laughed. "Wrong. Plaid and denim are the order of the day and my hair's the longest it's ever been. Plus as you know, I have an impressive scowl."

"You do," she agreed. "_Very_ impressive. It even _almost_ works on Spencer sometimes."

"Spencer," he muttered. "I keep expecting him to show up and blow the operation."

"He knows nothing. O'Hara and I have completely stonewalled him and we've locked down every possible access to any way he could find out where you are or what you're doing. Even if he's hovering outside my door listening to my end of the conversation, he doesn't know anything. You can relax."

"Like _I_ can relax…" He paused, and then said with some bemusement, "Actually, I can. I have to say, this assignment has been the perfect vacation for me. I'm getting to fish and be a cop at the same time."

He _had_ been sounding at ease of late, not a concept one normally associated with him. Karen smiled. "I'm glad you're having a respite before the storm."

"Me, too. When's the last time _you_ took a vacation?"

The question surprised her, as it implied he noticed this sort of thing, but then, people did tend to forget exactly how observant he really was. "It's been awhile. Even when I don't have Iris, I'm usually tied to the station."

"But what was it? What was your last good vacation?"

"Oh, let me think." But she didn't really have to think about it. She remembered; it was when Iris turned three and she and her husband took her up to Colorado. They were happy, Iris was an angel, the scenery was grand, the whole trip was perfect and relaxing and damn, that had been nearly four years ago. She gave Carlton an edited version, but he must have heard the "good memory" tone in her voice.

"That's too long," he said quietly. "I know your life is different now but you should take some time. Soon. Recharge."

Karen smiled into the tuna salad bowl. "Am I actually being advised to relax by _Carlton Lassiter_? The same man who has well over a year of unused leave time?"

"It's different for me," he said, practically. "I don't have children, friends, or a life. You have all of those things and you need to be a whole, healthy person to take care of both your daughter and your job."

Ignoring the advice, she couldn't help but take up for him. "Carlton. You have friends."

He said nothing.

"You have O'Hara." _Right?_

Carlton cleared his throat. "I'm talking about the kind of friends who give a damn what you do outside of work."

Her mouth hung open and her heart hurt for him. "Carlton…"

"And even if that still included O'Hara, she's part of a package deal now with Spencer and Guster." He became brisk. "It doesn't matter. I'm responsible for my life being the way it is. You know that saying—it may be the purpose of your life is to serve as a warning to others?"

"Yes, but… you're not exactly a lost cause. You wouldn't be so good at your job if you were."

"Except I've let the job become everything." He sighed, impatient but most likely with himself; she knew that feeling in her own dark hours. "That's why this assignment has been such a good thing."

_I'm starting to think you're right, but maybe for selfish reasons_. It was damn nice to talk to a man… an actual man… about things other than work or child custody.

"But don't worry," he said dryly, "I'm sure I'll fall back into my Angry Old Man ways as soon as I get back to the real world."

Karen laughed, because that was absurd. "You are not an Angry _Old_ Man. You're my age, for one thing, and I am definitely not old. So really you're just an Angry Man, and honestly I think you've mellowed a little over the years."

Skepticism infused every syllable. "Me? Mellowed? Is this Karen Vick? You do know who you're talking to, right? And no, you are definitely not old. But then again, according to my sister, _I _was old when I was eighteen."

"Maybe you were, but it wasn't your fault." She knew only a little of his upbringing, because he was so private, but what she had heard suggested he hadn't had much choice about how fast he had to grow up.

"Well. Long time ago, anyway."

"Listen, Carlton. I want you to be very careful tonight while you're skulking around, okay?"

"I will."

"I mean it," she repeated. "And it's not just your boss talking."

"Yes, yes; Decker and Donnell and—"

"No. I mean it because… because you _do_ have a friend who gives a damn about you outside of work."

He drew in a breath, but was silent.

"Okay?"

"Yeah," he said hesitantly. "Yeah. Thanks."

_No… thank you. Thank you for opening my eyes._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

And so it went for the next three weeks.

Every day, after he checked in with Decker, Lassiter called Karen. It was usually as she was on her way home from work, and sometimes she spent up to half an hour in the car in the parking lot, to the point it became embarrassing to have uniforms tapping on her window to be sure she was all right.

Finally she asked if he wouldn't mind calling later, after Iris was in bed. She felt rather… bold suggesting it, but she was able to justify it to herself under the heading of protecting his undercover status by not talking to him during the workday. Technically she shouldn't have been talking to him at all; Decker would be appalled. But as Carlton's supervisor she felt she had a right to know, and as his… friend… she _wanted_ to know.

She wanted to know a _lot_.

Funny how you could work with a person for seven years and really not know a thing about him. Each conversation provided some sort of discovery, and she was sure he'd make the same comment about her.

From food likes to musical tastes to just comparing notes about City Hall bigwigs, from arguing about politics and gun control to speculating about how long it would take Juliet to figure out Spencer wasn't ever growing up, they seemed to have plenty to discuss. Including squirrel control, though she was of the opinion it shouldn't be something he felt murderous about. ("Agree to disagree," he'd joked, making her laugh, and she was far too happy about how nice it felt.)

He asked her what was going on at the station, and she knew without asking that he'd only been in sporadic contact with Juliet. On the one hand, that was the protocol she herself should be following. On the other hand, she felt a strange and very personal pride that Carlton was breaking protocol for _her_.

And it wasn't only pride Karen felt, as she lay on the sofa every night, feet up, glass of wine in one hand and phone firmly in the other.

No, it was far more than pride, but maybe not something she wanted to put a name to just yet.

She did know one thing: she was going to miss this when it was over.

_But…_

_Why does it have to be over?_

_You can still be friends. You'll just have to make time outside work to be friends. Other people do this all the time_.

_We're not other people. He's… _he's_ not other people. And neither am I._

Until one night he said, voice low and intimate in its sincerity, "I'm going to miss talking to you."

She felt her heart thudding in her chest. "You don't have to miss it."

He didn't say anything.

"Don't go quiet on me now, Carlton," she warned.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I'm just assuming that when I'm home again, and things go back to normal—"

"This _is_ normal now. I don't mean we're going to have tea time in my office every day; I am your supervisor and can't show favoritism, but this… these conversations… they're normal now." She took a breath. "And I don't want them to stop."

_I don't _ever_ want them to stop._

It seemed to take forever for him to respond, but she felt his sincerity keenly. "I don't either, Karen."

Tears stung her eyes—but they were good tears. Tears of hope. "Okay then. It's settled."

She could hear the smile when he agreed, and when she went to bed later she felt pretty damn good for no _sensible_ reason at all.

The next night, he didn't call.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She lasted until noon on Thursday, which marked over forty-eight hours of no contact. Calling Agent Decker's direct number, she simply inquired briskly as to the status of the operation. (Unless she was asked point-blank to reveal the extent of her communication with Lassiter, she wouldn't volunteer it.)

"I was just about to call you," Decker said, interrupting her request for information. "To let you know they took him."

Karen felt herself freezing. "What? What do you mean they _took_ him?"

"They took him. Best we can tell, they snatched him out of his boat Tuesday afternoon. We'd asked him to fish closer to their property because it looked like they were getting ready to move on a big deal."

"And?"

_And_: a one-syllable word meaning _don't you screw around with me, not about this. Not about _him.

He hesitated. "His dinghy was recovered downstream by other fisherman."

She had somehow gotten to her feet. "_And_?"

"We don't think they killed him. There's marks on the bottom of the boat which make it look like it was dragged ashore, probably with him in it, then pushed back out."

Everything was going a little black, a little hazy. "Just because they dragged it ashore doesn't mean he's not…" She couldn't say it. The word would not pass her lips. Probably because it was afraid of the way the room was spinning.

_They could have pulled the boat ashore just to remove his body._

Decker pushed on. "If they made him, it could only have been because of our mole. If that's the case, no way would they kill him, because the mole knows his own days are numbered no matter what. They're probably just holding him until the deal is done, and then they'll move on."

"And then do _what_ with Lassiter?" She sounded strangled. She _felt_ strangled.

"Look, Karen, it's too early to know anything. We have ground ops in place now. We have them surrounded and based on the info Lassiter was able to provide, we think we have the mole isolated as well. There's no reason to think this won't have a happy ending."

Karen felt her legs giving way, and weakly sank into her chair, but managed to spit out, "You're a lying son of a bitch."

"I'm doing my job," he shot back. "And so was he. We all knew the risks and he signed on fully informed of those risks. Now we are all going to do our best to him back to you in one piece, so you just need to sit tight and wait for an update." Click.

_But you said _"was."

_Dammit, you said _"was."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO **

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Sunny day, cool. The river—a wide deep stream, really—was partially shaded by tall trees at the shoreline. Pleasant thoughts of Karen's warm voice, and the promise of more to come.

Lassiter felt a tug on the line, a serious ain't-messing-around-I-_will_-take-this-bait tug, and although he was well aware he was being watched from the trees, he set about bringing in the trout, which looked to be a large and handsome specimen.

A random thought of cooking it for dinner with Karen crossed his mind, and he smiled.

"After you bring that in, throw it right back," someone called from shore.

He glanced at the speaker, a man in a black vest who was standing on a rock looking very casual except for his handgun.

The man—Lassiter had dubbed him Slick from his earlier forays onto their land—was not alone. Blocky, Stench and Tooth were a few feet down, all carrying rifles.

"I said," Slick repeated genially, "throw it back."

"What are you, vegans?" Lassiter snapped, not stopping his fight with the fish.

Slick was amused. "Nah, I love a good trout almondine. We just don't have time for this right now."

"And just when the hell did I get on _your_ schedule?"

"About two minutes ago." Slick raised his gun and shot the fishing rod right out of Lassiter's hands, which startled and then pissed him off as he watched it sink—in pieces—under the gentle waters.

"Crap on a cracker," he spat. "What do you _want_?"

"Bring the boat in."

"Get your own boat!"

"You don't go down easy, do ya." He nodded at 'his boys,' who raised their rifles in unison, and Lassiter had to admit, it was impressive.

He faced them, steady in the dinghy. "If you're going to kill me, get it over with."

"We're not gonna kill you, moron. Just bring the damn boat in or we'll shoot it right out from under you."

He really hated not having options. It torked him off more than almost anything else. He was cursing the whole time he maneuvered the dinghy close enough for Tooth—so named because he seemed to have just the one—to catch the line and pull it the rest of the way.

They were a little rough getting him onto land, and a little rough pushing the dinghy back out into the water. There went his gun—and his phone.

Slick stood off a few feet while the other three formed a wall between Lassiter and the water.

He pointed at Stench. "You shouldn't send this guy to snoop over at my place. He leaves a scent trail. It's not pretty."

Stench glowered; Slick grinned. Blocky and Tooth grinned too, which didn't improve Stench's mood.

"I'll make a note," Slick said.

"If you're not going to kill me, and you don't want my boat, then why am I here?"

"How about we just like your company?"

"How about I _don't_ like yours?" He punched Blocky, kicked Stench when he came at him, and elbowed Tooth in the gut.

It didn't go well from there, but he was pretty sure, before everything went black, that he'd proved Slick right: he most definitely did not go down easy.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Apparently, he was alive.

And he could see.

He could only see dirt and feet right now, but he could see.

Raising his aching head, he surveyed his surroundings.

Cement-block building, small, square. Dirt floor. Two high openings on opposite walls, and one heavy wooden door, currently open. Trees beyond.

Slick was sitting on a barrel in front of him, seeming relaxed, Colt still in view.

Blocky had a black eye, Stench had a split lip, and Tooth's shirt was torn enough for Lassiter to see bruises on his ribcage.

_Good_, he thought with grim satisfaction, and never mind how _he_ ached right now. It was all worth it.

His left wrist was shackled; the shackle was new and attached to a sturdy chain which was in turn securely affixed to a stone post in the middle of the room.

"What's the plan, Slick?"

Slick smiled. "I like that. Slick. Well, Mr. Dennis—see, I figure we're not quite close enough for me to call you Stan just yet—really all we need is for you to _be_ here."

Stench's explorations in his cabin had turned up the false name he was using, but he'd expected that.

"So I'm a hostage? What for?"

"More like an insurance policy, but you don't really need to know." He got up, and gestured around the dim room. "There's your commode in the corner. Got you one of those little pine tree air fresheners too. We'll be bringing you food and water. Just relax and get comfortable. Nobody wants you dead."

Stench cleared his throat.

Slick laughed. "Okay, maybe _he_ wants you dead. But if the Rolling Stones taught us anything, Mr. Dennis, it's that you can't always get what you want."

"You should tie that air freshener around his neck," Lassiter muttered.

The man took a sudden step forward, but Blocky and Tooth held him back, and Slick settled him down with an icy glare.

To Lassiter, pleasantly: "We'll leave you be now. See you soon!"

They trooped out and slammed the heavy door shut behind them; Lassiter could hear the lock sliding into place as his cement-block prison went nearly dark.

He really, _really_ hated not having options.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They came to bring him food and water, always in pairs, but only at noon. Slick didn't appear again, and Lassiter knew not to bother asking questions of the others; they were all made of the same stone-faced stuff.

He spent his time listening to the sounds outside the building. He knew from his previous snooping that he was at the far south end of their property, half a mile from the river, and most of the other structures were closer to the water.

He also spent his time working at the shackle, and the chain, and the post. The chain was long enough to allow him to get within a few inches of being able to kick at the door, and he'd tried. He'd had to work his jacket off to use part of the sleeve to wrap around his wrist, which was raw from his efforts to get the shackle off.

During the rest of his long dim days, he allowed himself to replay his conversations with Karen Vick. Seemed so long ago now, those quiet hours on the phone, finally getting to know the woman he'd worked for all these years.

It also seemed so damned _unlikely_ now, that she'd hinted at wanting more from their new closeness. How could it be true? She was the frickin' Chief of Police. She surely had more sense than to take up with her Head Detective, especially when that Head Detective was _him_.

And maybe it was all moot, depending on how this mission played out.

Nonetheless, he remembered the sound of her laughter, and the warmth of her voice when she was pleased to be talking with him, and they brightened some of the endless hours he spent here waiting. Made him think about improbably happy developments when… _if_… he got out again. In fact, it was only because he might _not_ get out that he permitted himself to think of those happy improbabilities in the first place.

Meanwhile, more waiting.

He hated _waiting_ even more than he hated having no options.

It wasn't long before he perversely began to look forward to his surly visitors… because they at least provided a diversion of sorts.

The first day with lunch, Blocky hit him while Tooth looked on, but it didn't last long.

The second day, Tooth hit him while Stench looked on, grinning.

Lather, rinse and repeat.

The fifth day, Stench and Blocky brought his food and water and he _didn't_ get hit, but mid-afternoon, Stench came back alone.

Lassiter knew hate when he saw it, and he knew rogue when he saw it too.

It got ugly fast, but he was neither so slowed down by earlier fights nor so worn down by the shortage of food that he couldn't manage, and having height and speed and anger-fueled adrenalin helped a hell of a lot.

It was good to be Irish, and he would always, _always_ go down swinging.

So he had the chain wrapped around Stench's neck when Slick appeared in the doorway, and it wasn't at all clear which one of them Slick's handgun was aimed at when he fired.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Looking back on it later, Karen didn't understand how she made it through the week. She didn't say a word about it to O'Hara; she lied smoothly about Carlton's mission being ongoing and kept her office door closed a lot claiming quarterly reports, conference calls, and other plausible reasons which allowed her to be alone, jaw clenched, sick with fear for… for her friend.

_Friend_.

A short, harsh laugh escaped; behind her, Iris at the breakfast table asked idly what was so funny.

Friend.

Iris persisted. "Mama, what's so funny?"

Karen considered saying that the man who held Iris when she was first born—the man with the bluest eyes ever known to the world, the man who had tried so hard and so long to save his marriage, the man who had far too many notations in his file about weapons discharge, the man who was oddly proud of how many people wanted to kill him—had somehow become incredibly important to her on a very, very personal level.

But that wasn't _funny_. It was just scary.

The kind of scary which makes a grown-ass woman lie awake at night thinking about a man she'd like to be lying there _with_ when she wasn't flat-out praying he was alive and coming back to her soon.

So she told Iris the army joke (_where does a General keep his armies? in his sleevies_) and distracted her until her ex came to pick her up. He would have Iris for the next few weeks, with a trip planned to New Mexico, and Karen thought _maybe this is a good thing, because if I lose Carlton when I've only just barely maybe sort of gotten him, I'm going to need a hell of a lot of alone time for a while_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Thursday was the ninth day.

Nine long days of mind-numbing worrying and a host of bad dreams.

She told her sixth lie to Juliet about everything going according to plan with Carlton's assignment. This time, she had the feeling Juliet doubted her too-quick answer. She might not be able to get away with a seventh lie.

Decker called her in the afternoon, and Karen got up to close her office door before letting him say whatever potentially horrific thing he was going to say.

"We've got him."

Karen's eyes closed, and relief wanted to take over her suddenly trembling body, but she had to stay on point. "How is he?"

"He's okay." His tone was cautious. "They'd been keeping him in an outbuilding at the back end of the property. They roughed him up some and didn't feed him much but he's okay."

She needed more. "Roughed him up how?"

"Karen, he's alive and in one piece."

"_Roughed him up how_?"

Pause. "What you need to remember, Chief Vick, is that he's okay now. He's safe. Nothing's broken and he is _safe_."

Karen forced herself to start breathing again. Decker was right. Focus on the job. "And the mission?"

"We got most of them, including our mole. It didn't go down perfectly but it went down and the right people are going to jail."

Now, now finally, she allowed the relief to take over—as if she had a choice, what with those damned tears burning her eyes again. "When can he come home?"

"We need him for debriefing, so probably not until Monday."

Instant rebellion. "Screw _that_. I'm coming to get him _today_."

"Karen, settle down. I told you Lassiter's all right and we need to—"

"I don't care," she said flatly. "I'm coming up there now."

_Don't you even _think_ about getting in my way._

Decker let out an exasperated sigh. "Geez, fine. You can stop to pack up his stuff from the cabin when you get here and that'll give us more debrief time. I'll send you the directions. Make sure your vehicle can handle these roads."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She rented a hard-top Jeep on her own dime after going home long enough to change into jeans and fill up a small overnight bag. It would only take a couple of hours to get there but she didn't want to assume she could get Carlton back home again; Decker's assessment of "he's all right" might not be entirely accurate.

At the station she'd claimed having forgotten an appointment, encouraged O'Hara—acting Head Detective—to not _need_ to call on her, and took a few minutes to clear her Friday schedule just in case.

There were ferocious storms brewing as she drove toward her destination, and some of them were internal. She knew it was totally unnecessary for her to go and collect Carlton in person. Juliet (had Karen confided in her) would have been delighted to go—might even have demanded—and so would Buzz McNab, or any number of the people under her command. Some would have gone out of sincere interest, like Juliet; some would have gone out of respect for Carlton no matter how thoroughly terrifying they found him. Hell, she could have sent Shawn and Gus without much objection on their part (although imagining either the Blueberry on these roads or Carlton stuffed in it with those two for hours on end was a bit iffy).

It was not _her_ place to make this trip.

_And you can screw that, too_, she thought. _This one is _all_ mine_.

The Jeep turned out to be useful on the narrow dirt roads leading up to the cabin, and she eyed the restless skies above her hoping she could get them out again before the rains came and made the roads impassable mud.

Donnell met her at the cabin, saying he'd take her to Decker and Lassiter shortly, and she set about efficiently packing up Carlton's belongings.

He hadn't brought anything of a personal nature, certainly nothing which could be traced back to his real identity. It was simple enough to gather his toiletries, his clothing, a few books by the bed which she knew were his because they'd talked about them.

Karen paused by the bed, resisting the urge to pick up the pillow and breathe in his scent. This was where he'd sometimes lain while they talked, just as she'd often been in her own bed as well. Her cheeks warmed.

She needed to see him _now_.

It had been two months since he last stood in her office, and over a week since she'd last heard his smoky voice over the phone, _and she was done waiting_.

Blinking back a tear—again! she'd become a regular fountain lately—she reminded herself it had only been three weeks of conversations. Three little short insignificant weeks. Nothing to get so ridiculously worked up about, and besides, even if he hadn't talked himself out of anything in the past nine days, he might still when he returned to the 'real' world. This man would not be easy to win, even if he'd already won _her_… and by God, she believed he had done just that.

_Hell with it_—Karen took the pillow and breathed deeply of him, and felt better.

_Stupid woman._

She breathed him in again anyway and went on, because that's what she was here to do.

When she thought she had everything which was unmistakably his, the bags he'd brought were full, and Donnell stolidly carried them to the Jeep for her. He'd already loaded up the remainder of Carlton's fishing gear.

In his own vehicle, Donnell led the way over to the targets' property, which was still crawling with investigators, and she had no voice any more. Trusting herself to say anything that wasn't a desperate and incoherent babble was a bad idea. _She had to see him._

The sky was black and the trees whipped around above them and the agents were scurrying around trying to get what they needed before Mother Nature let loose, and Carlton came out of the main structure while she was nearly to the steps and looked at her and for one second she was frozen and after that she wasn't sure how she got her arms around him.

He was real, he was solid… he was _alive_.

Carlton held on to her all-too-briefly before setting her away, and it couldn't have been her imagination that the deep blue depths of his eyes showed something intensely and totally about her—about _them_.

"Karen," he said quietly. "They told me you were coming for me."

She was still grasping his arms, studying him. Fading bruises marked his lean face, and obviously he was exhausted and underfed. Dried blood—way the hell too much—on his torn clothes, a bandaged wrist. His hair, black and silver, was long and wavy, if rather unkempt at present; his beard was full and had a lot of gray, but all of this only accentuated his vivid blue eyes and despite his nine long damned days of captivity, Karen thought he was the most wonderful thing she'd seen in a long damned time.

"I had to," she said. "Let's get you out of here."

"Decker wants to—"

"I don't care what Decker wants. We're going home before this storm hits." She tugged on his sleeve, and probably because he was too worn out to argue, he followed her back to the Jeep.

Decker came out of the cabin, calling her name with enough force to make her pause, but only after Carlton was in the vehicle.

"Leave him alone," she commanded.

"The hell I will. We need him. There's a lot to be worked out here, and Lassiter—"

"Lassiter has been held captive for _nine days_. He can't possibly know anything more than he knew before he was taken that he hasn't already told you since you rescued him."

"Vick—"

"Have you fed him? Have you given him any water? I can see his wrist's been bandaged so obviously he got some medical attention, but has anyone done anything else for the human being he is, more than just the source of information you want?"

"Look here," he began angrily. "You need to remember your place in this mission."

"I do remember it," she shot back. "I'm the one who loaned you a damned good officer so you could get him kidnapped and nearly killed in the course of bringing your mission to a successful close."

"And I appreciate that, but we are not done with him yet!" He started for the other side of the Jeep, and Karen grabbed his arm to stop him.

"_Enough_. Do you hear me? You can finish your debriefing on Monday. I'm sure he's given you everything you need right now, and if he remembers anything else, guess what? We have telephones in Santa Barbara. Email too. Hell, we even have video conferencing, and in a pinch, Decker, I'm sure I can put together two really cutting-edge cans and a long-ass string."

As if to accentuate her decree, thunder cracked ominously above them.

Decker glared at her, long and hard, but finally shook his head, accepting defeat. "You're something else, Vick."

"Yeah. I've heard." With a curt nod—being "something else" was part of her _job_—she climbed into the Jeep and got it turned around.

Carlton leaned back against the seat, a faint smile curving his mouth. "That was a hell of a show, boss. But you didn't have to do that. I could probably have lasted a little longer."

Karen eyed him. "Maybe, but you shouldn't have been asked to."

She was just so glad to have him in her sights—within sensory range—she was almost thankful for the distraction of the storm. God only knew what she might say or do this close to him now after thinking the things she'd been thinking the past month.

A few hundred yards down the road, she stopped the Jeep again and reached into the small ice chest she'd brought along just in case, producing a Coke and a convenience-store chicken salad sandwich.

He smiled as she handed them over, along with some Keebler cookies. "You have no idea how good this is going to taste."

"I think I do. Now relax if you can, Carlton. I'm planning to get us out of this forest before we drown in mud."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**. . . .**

**. . . **

They couldn't escape the rain for long, and "the road" was muddy and tricky, but white-knuckling it and fervent prayer got Karen and her charge nearly to the edge of the forest… in three hours instead of one, factoring in two times they had to push the Jeep out of the mud. She felt as exhausted as he looked—partly because she wouldn't let Carlton push with his injured wrist despite his scowl—and according to the radio, the weather was this bad all the way back down to the coast.

She needed a break, and so did he.

There was a motel, nothing fancy, when they washed out of the forest, and on impulse she pulled in. It was nearly ten and she simply refused to go any further in this storm even on paved roads.

"We're staying here," she told him in her Chief Vick voice, and he nodded, blue eyes tired but still alert. "I'll be back in a minute."

Inside, the clerk watched her drip her way up to the counter.

"Guess what I want."

He grinned. "You want our very last single room for the night."

"Actually I'd like your very last _double_ room for the night."

_Lie. Lying liar. LIE! _Not that it mattered; he was shaking his head anyway.

"But I'll settle for the single."

"Good choice," he said. "Half the place is shut down for remodeling and the storm drove everyone else in off the road."

"Rollaway bed?"

"Not a chance." He was brisk, handing her a pen. "What we didn't put in storage is already in use."

"Swell." Truthfully, she was beyond caring. She was tired, she didn't want Carlton to be alone right now (or maybe _she_ just didn't want to be alone without Carlton right now), and she'd sleep on the floor if necessary. "Do you at least have extra pillows?"

"_There_ I can help you." He caught a glimpse of the badge on her belt when she reached for her wallet. "I can also give you ten dollars worth of change from our fully-stocked vending machines as a token of my regret."

Karen couldn't help but smile. "I'll remember you in my will."

"Words I've been waiting my life to hear."

He made good on the quarters and said the pillows would be in the room by the time she moved the Jeep.

She went back out into the roaring storm to Carlton. His eyes were closed—she just wanted to pull him into her arms and soothe him all the way to deep sleep—but he jerked to attention when she got in and closed the door. "All set?"

"Yep." She drove (rowed) around the building to their entrance, backing into a space they'd be able to see from the window; she wanted to drop him at the door but knew he'd never agree. Together they retrieved what they needed for the night. What was a little more cold stinging miserable rain to their already drenched clothes?

The desk clerk was retreating down the hall, turning only to wave, when they got to the room. Carlton's glance was curious as she slid the keycard in. "My room or yours?"

"Ours. Between remodeling and the storm, they're full up." _Keep it brisk. He will be inclined to freak about this and he's got enough going on already_.

Once inside the room, he stopped again. "Karen. Please tell me—"

"The rollaway's coming in a little while," she lied. "See, he brought the pillows for it already." Pointing casually to the bed where three extra pillows rested, she took off her wet jacket and started prying his lean fingers loose from what they'd carried in. "Carlton, don't worry about it. Just take a shower and get into some dry clothes. I'll go collect a succulent feast from the vending machines and be right back."

He looked at her, tired but still pretty sharp. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," she interrupted firmly. "I'm serious. You're worn out and soaked and you need the first shower you've had in nine days, and no, I don't count the rain. When you come out—take as long as you like—there'll be a rich selection of delicacies here for your dining pleasure. Then you can go to sleep in a real bed."

"And you?" Sharp and implacable.

Karen smiled. "I will be comfortable in the big overstuffed chair until the rollaway gets here, and you'll certainly wake up to argue with me about that. Make no mistake, Carlton. I can be just as bossy a _friend_ as I am a supervisor."

Carlton relaxed, and it warmed her heart to see the light of acceptance in his eyes. "Okay. Thanks."

Checking her pockets for the quarters and the room key, she headed for the door, but Carlton's hand shot out and caught her wrist.

"Karen," he said huskily.

She looked up at him, searching his expression, and when he pulled her close for a sudden tight hug, she sank against him—soaking, tired, shaggy Carlton—and held on tight. Breathing him in, rain and damp and nine days of captivity notwithstanding.

He set her free, settling his hands on her shoulders. "I'm glad it was you who came for me."

"I told you," she whispered. "I had to."

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Karen scored a pretty good variety of vending machine prizes: peanuts for protein, Danish for carbs, animal crackers for no good reason, M&Ms and Hershey's because chocolate was medicinal, two Hi-C drinks (duh, vitamin C) and a couple of boxes of yogurt-covered raisins. That was sort of like fruit and dairy combined, eh?

Back in the room, and since she could hear the shower still running in the bathroom, she changed quickly out of her own wet clothes and tried to do something to make her hair look less like a matted, soggy mess. There'd be time for her own shower later, after he was asleep.

Carlton looked worlds better when he emerged in one of the tees and plaid flannel pajama pants she'd packed up from his cabin. Clean and dry and obviously much refreshed, he also made great inroads on the deluxe dinner she'd provided. He didn't say much, but she could tell he was "there" now. Fully there.

"That was almost as good as a Big Mac and fries," he commented. He was sprawled on the bed, she in the stuffed armchair, with the last of the M&Ms between them. Some of the natural light was back in his blue eyes, and she thought _I was so terrified I would never see you again_.

_And now I am seeing you ready for bed, _on_ a bed, barefoot and bare-armed, and really it's not right now much I want to join you over there._

_Plus with the longer hair and the beard… damn. Just damn._

She might have been staring at him, judging by his one slightly-raised eyebrow. "You can't go wrong with Lance and Tom when it comes to quality over-priced snacks," she agreed. "In the morning we will get you a proper breakfast, fit for a king."

"Hash browns. I would settle for hash browns and a giant coffee."

There was a coffee maker in the room but she'd thought it best to have him forego caffeine tonight. "They… they did feed you, right?"

He rolled over onto his back, hands behind his head, but turned to smile at her. "Yes. Pretty good stuff, too. A lot of chili. I ate whatever they ate, but only once a day. They didn't want me keeping my strength up."

Nine days of that caloric intake explained his leaner-than-usual frame. Not that she was still looking at his body, or thinking about lying next to him, or for that matter, imagining _anything_ she shouldn't be imagining. Not Karen Vick, no way.

_I just want to touch him. Damn me._

"What happened? How did they get you?" She hadn't asked any questions in the car.

A familiar frown lined his forehead, and she was absurdly relieved to see it. "Four of them came to the riverbank when the dinghy was in sight of their cabin. They had guns and invited me to join them."

"_Invited_," she repeated dryly.

Carlton smirked—also familiar, also delightful—and rolled back onto his side to face her. "They were almost well-mannered."

"Putting that bruise on your face wasn't very mannerly of them."

He shrugged. "I wouldn't be me if I didn't put up some kind of fight. Someone came along and hit me every day before lunch just to remind me I wasn't going anywhere."

"Carlton," she murmured, but she knew he would think it was no big deal, just another part of the job, nothing either to brag about or to downplay. It was what it was. "Did they know who you were?"

"After a few days it seemed like they at least knew I wasn't just an anti-social fisherman." He rubbed his cheek. "Mostly they just came in to bring me food and smack me around."

She couldn't dwell on it, especially seeing the bandage on his wrist and those fading bruises on his arms and face. "Where was your phone?"

"The phone and the gun were in the dinghy." He grinned. "Secret compartment. Decker said they retrieved them."

_The phone will show the calls to me._

But he pointed to the wet jacket hanging up by the door. "Phone's in the pocket. I don't know where the gun is."

Karen found that amusing. "You don't know where your gun is and yet you seem unconcerned? That's not like you."

Carlton yawned. "I'm just glad to be out of there, clean, dry and fed." He added carefully, "And, I have to admit, I'm damned glad to be with you."

She felt warm; she couldn't help it. "As you should be," she said lightly.

His return smile warmed her further. "Now where is that rollaway?"

"It's coming."

"Because I'll sleep in the chair before I let you, after you coming to rescue me today."

_You could invite me to share the bed, but _I must not_ push you._

Deflect, then. "I didn't rescue you; I just gave you a ride out. And this is non-negotiable, Carlton. You're using the bed." She stood up, finishing off her Hi-C drink before crumpling the can and tossing it. "You just go brush your teeth or whatever and go to sleep. I'll get my shower and the rollaway will be here in no time. You can supervise."

It was proof of how tired he was that he didn't argue—no doubt he thought he'd wake the minute the mythical rollaway arrived and he could strong-arm her then—and after he was finally settled she began to gather her things for her shower.

"The last time I slept in a bed," he said, and she turned to see him, "I'd just had a really… nice conversation with you."

From across the room, she felt exposed. Thrilled, terrified, exposed.

"I remember it," she said softly.

"So it's appropriate that my first time back in a bed, you're the last voice I'll hear before I sleep."

_Appropriate_… though she was having some very _in_appropriate thoughts involving him, the bed, and herself.

She limited herself to a smile. "Now you know why I _had_ to come get you."

**. . . .  
****. . .**

The chair wasn't the problem. It was comfortable enough, and the right angle for her to put her feet up on the edge of the bed and stretch out. The extra pillows helped and really, she couldn't complain.

The problem was the chair's proximity to the window, granting to her excellent hearing the benefit of the endless raging storm, the lightning which split the room even through the drawn curtains, the thunder which rattled her very bones.

Carlton slept soundly, oblivious to it all, and she was glad. He'd been out when she'd exited the bathroom, just as she'd hoped, and she'd moved very quietly to make sure he stayed that way, which was why she didn't want to drag the chair away from the window; her luck wouldn't hold out.

Before turning out the last lamp, she'd helplessly watched him for a few minutes. It was… lame? ... to say he looked years younger in sleep, but it was true. The longer hair, full of waves, the beard which she really wanted to touch; despite the strands of silver in the black and the remnants of the bruises on his face he was peaceful, warm, at ease.

It was something she'd never seen at work… but had heard on the phone for those three weeks of late-night discussions.

Karen felt damned lucky to have this glimpse of the man no one else knew.

Maybe Juliet O'Hara had an inkling, but she wasn't about to compare notes. Juliet had Spencer, and had quite possibly sacrificed her friendship and bond with Carlton in the process of attaining that relationship.

Still, that was neither her business, nor her concern. Her concern was Carlton.

Her _need_ was Carlton.

She could admit it to herself, under the baleful eye of Mother Nature. She just wished she could sleep the way he was right now.

Only… next to him. Yes. Because that would be much, much better, even if she didn't get any sleep at all.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Lassiter woke slowly, for a few moments totally unsure of his location.

But his comfort level had much improved over the past nine days—no dirt floor, no woodchips for a pillow, no shackle around his raw wrist—so once the first flash of lightning lit up the room through the curtains, he remembered what he needed to remember.

Even if none of it seemed real. Or made sense.

He could see Karen silhouetted at the window as she peered out into the storm, and he allowed himself to feel the simple and very real luxury of knowing she was with him.

That _she_ had come for him when she could have sent someone else, or hell, let him hitch a ride back with the CBI.

That she had nearly run to him at the cabin, her dark brown eyes full of concern for _him_.

None of that made any sense either, unless he'd actually been killed and this was heaven, because the not-fully-awake part of his mind was whispering some whackaloon nonsense about how even having a fully-dressed Karen within sight, by her own choice, in this hotel room far removed from anything either of them knew, well, it had to be heaven. At least as close to heaven as he was likely to get.

He sat up, yawning, stiff and sore and never more unconcerned about it. The bedside clock said three a.m., so he'd been out for four hours, maybe, which was pretty good considering the storm and the lovely scent of this warm woman to whom he had become unwisely attached of late.

"Karen."

She jumped about a foot, whirling to face him.

"Sorry." He got out of bed and padded over to her, running a hand through his too-long hair.

"Did I wake you?" She seemed anxious.

Another crack of thunder shook the room. "Uh, no. _You_ didn't wake me." He liked the rueful grin on her face but instead of moving closer like he wanted, he opened the curtains all the way, letting the full fury of the storm display itself before them through the rain-spattered glass.

"It just won't stop," she said wonderingly.

"Have you slept at all?" He glanced into the room behind them. "I don't see a rollaway."

"They ran out."

Lassiter didn't trust that answer. "And you knew this when you checked in."

Karen raised her eyebrows. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't, and I don't have to explain myself to you, Detective Lassiter. I am your superior officer and you are merely an underling."

But there was a hint of a grin behind the words. "That speech would be a lot more impressive if you weren't standing there in pajama pants and a Genesis t-shirt."

She laughed. "I was afraid of that."

He loved her laugh. He really wanted to put his arms around her, but joking aside… he _was_ the underling. Nothing had changed there.

The next ferocious blast of lightning and thunder made her reach out instinctively to grasp his arm as both of them flinched away from the glass.

He covered her hand with his and she allowed it, and in fact stayed with him while he returned to the window.

"Holy crap," she whispered. "I've never been so glad to have a roof over my head in my life."

"Roger that. Wait… isn't that right where you parked the Jeep?" He pointed to the giant fallen tree which now covered half the parking lot.

She surprised him by laughing. "Hell, yes, of course it is."

"Well, let's hope the City doesn't go against Mother Nature on the repair bill."

"They shouldn't. I rented it myself."

Lassiter was surprised. "But you—"

"I didn't want to take the time for explanations or paperwork. I wanted a vehicle fast which could get me up there and back." She let go of his arm, and sank down onto the edge of the bed. "I… I wasn't going to wait any longer than necessary to see you. To see you were safe."

_My God, _he thought, his heart racing.

Then more realistically:_ Safe. _

He sat down beside her. "Your underling?"

Karen looked down at her hands. "No. My… friend."

Friend. In the same category as 'safe,' and why couldn't he accept that she might mean what he wanted her to mean? Why did he always have to doubt the potentially good thing?

But if the walls were still up, well, he couldn't really blame her.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't _thank_ me." Her voice was almost angry. "I was… I was every ridiculous cliché there is about being worried sick. Once I knew you were all right, _nothing_ could have stopped me coming for you."

"Thank you," he said again—unsteadily, inadequately—because he couldn't remember anyone ever saying anything like that to him, and he wanted to kiss her at the same time he wanted to _not_ want to kiss her.

"Carlton, really?" There was no _almost_ about the anger now. "You still question whether you have value to people?"

"People?" he repeated. "Of course I have value to people. I'm head detective of the SBPD and hand-picked temporary op for the CBI."

"No—me," she said fiercely, grasping his t-shirt and then throwing her arms around him, burying her head against his shoulder. "_Me_."

It was almost a gasp, almost a sob, and Lassiter wrapped himself around her, holding her the way he'd wanted to back at the cabin and truthfully, every day for the preceding month. He couldn't let go, and it seemed she couldn't either, and for a short while he felt they were fused together.

She smelled so good, coconut and white gardenia, and she was so damned warm, and he probably shouldn't be allowed to be this close to her. It was overwhelming.

"Karen." He eased her away from him, which was almost physically painful. "I'm sorry."

Her hand went to his face, stroking his beard, moving gently into his hair. "You're not used to being the object of someone's… interest, are you?"

"You could say that."

_You could also say your hand in my hair is making me lose my mind_.

"And you're really good at protecting yourself from rejection." Her fingers skimmed the back of his neck lightly.

"I've had to be," Lassiter admitted. It seemed easier, sitting beside her in the near-dark, to simply be honest. "I had a lot of time to think this past week. I replayed our conversations over and over in my mind. I thought I must have imagined…." He trailed off. He had no idea how to actually speak the words. _Those_ words.

She had hold of his hand somehow, squeezing it hard. "Why? _Why_ would you think that?"

"Because that's the way things go for me," he said evenly. "The level of crazy I'd have to be, to allow myself to believe it was real—I wasn't sure I could come back from that. And if I was going to end up dead in the woods—"

"Stop. You didn't imagine it," she whispered. "You didn't imagine anything. I'm _here_ because you didn't."

He couldn't help it; he caressed her soft cheek and she rested her head against his hand, sighing. "Thinking about you got me through most nights, you know."

"Same here." She looked up at him, and her eyes were shining. Flashes of lightning lit the room, illuminating her honey-gold hair and the faint smile on her face, a wry and perfect smile he'd fixed in his mind as they'd talked every night. "I'd forgotten what it was like to be Karen. Not Iris's mom or the Chief, but me. Karen. A woman."

"A beautiful woman," he corrected, because she should not doubt it. God, he wanted to kiss her.

"But it was more than that," she said, urgent now. "It was getting to really _know_ you after all these years. Seeing the Carlton no one else sees. Three weeks of our private conversations and… and I can't go back to only being your boss. I just don't see how. Dammit, I don't _want_ to."

The storm outside seemed to be fading, and Lassiter memorized Karen's every feature in the quiet seconds which passed.

A particularly bright burst of lightning filled every corner of the room and they both jumped a little, but after a few moments of unexpected silence, he said, "No thunder."

"There _is_ thunder," she whispered, and put his hand over her heart. "Right here."

He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin t-shirt, the swell of her breast, but it was the look in her eyes which made him feel the thunder in his heart as well.

Leaning in close, so close his lips were almost brushing hers, so close he could breathe in her scent and heat, he murmured, "I don't usually screw around with reality, Karen, because reality always wins, but you make me want to go after it with a baseball bat."

"Well," she said softly, "batter up." She closed the distance between them, and reality never stood a chance.

**. . . .  
****. . .**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**. . . .  
****. . .**

When Lassiter left Santa Barbara two months earlier, his life had been The Same for quite some time.

He worked too much. He rested too little. He'd lost the sense of his bond with Juliet, but for once in his personal history, knew he wasn't solely to blame for its failure.

His boss was… his _boss_, an attractive but completely off-limits woman who was usually supportive (and _always_ when it really mattered), sometimes exasperated and sometimes outright furious—but not for a while, he reflected; maybe it was the years and maybe it was her divorce, and maybe he was different himself, not as prone to running pell-mell into verbal traps and other social dangers.

(When asked about his legendary love of guns, and why he wasn't afraid one would be turned against him, he couldn't help but think that bullets were nothing—people armed only with words had done him far more damage over the years.)

He knew his co-workers as much as it was possible for him to know anyone, given that his understanding of why other people seemed to be able To Make It Work was sketchy at best. But since his friendship with Juliet _had_ changed, and probably permanently, there really wasn't anyone he could count as close.

Some days that was okay. Some days… some _nights_… it was a hell of a lot harder than he liked.

Yet after a few weeks of relative solitude in the woods, he'd come to understand (no… _remember_) that he didn't want to be as totally alone as he usually felt, and that those other people, the ones he couldn't be like, the ones who didn't "get" him, were important. Maybe even necessary.

Talking to Karen on the phone, in conversations which had been unmistakably personal almost from the start, he allowed himself to feel—to absorb—to _need_ their connection. It probably wouldn't have happened, their friendship, if not for the distance and the phone. Despite her divorce, he couldn't imagine their workplace relationship ever extending to anything more personal.

He found her remarkable. Intelligent, strong, funny, wry. Beautiful, even though he couldn't see her; he remembered, and the sound of her warm voice in his ear every night was lovely. Promising.

During his captivity, when he replayed their phone calls and imagined seeing her again, somehow against all logic, he also imagined finding a way to _really_ be with this woman who had become so important to him.

The storm was receding, and the parking lot lights instead of lightning now illuminated the room.

It was quiet, but it was not still.

Lassiter looked down at Karen, who was gripping his arms, desperation and need in her deep brown eyes, and as he sank into the warm willing intimate heat of her, marveling, marveling at all of it, she whispered his name and "please, now," and completed their circuit with a searing kiss.

He wasn't entirely sure how they got here. He remembered kissing her endlessly, he remembered her kissing him back, her soft lips and persistent tongue driving him to a greater _want_ than he could recall in his life. He remembered becoming entangled on the bed, in each others' arms, her Genesis t-shirt being tossed to the floor; he remembered her pulling his pajama pants off; he remembered that the hungry, needful kisses had continued throughout, while he caressed her and shivered at the touch of her fingers on his back and hips and elsewhere.

Such beautiful skin, soft coconut-scented heaven in his arms and underneath him now. Making her gasp in pleasure had driven him nearly mad with desire himself, and the feel of her smooth legs locked around his thighs drove him further. Deeper. Harder.

Karen. Making love to Karen.

Feeling... _feeling_ love for Karen.

Feeling _everything_, with Karen.

They didn't need a storm for sparks, electricity, illumination. Maybe the storm had been leading up to this. Lassiter didn't know anything anymore except how it felt to be with her, together, as if it had always been the right, _best_ thing in the world.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

He woke again at dawn, Karen curled warmly against his body under the cotton sheet.

They'd left the curtains open, so the pink and orange light of sunrise turned the whole room a sort of rosy dream-world, which was appropriate.

Shifting a little to kiss the top of her head, he murmured a good morning, not wanting to wait any longer to see her eyes, to see her in the light of this new day.

Karen stirred, stretching as she woke more fully, but remaining close, one leg draped over his.

"Good morning," she said sleepily, stroking his chest through the sheet.

"It is."

A low laugh was his prize, and she tilted her head up to kiss his face just above the line of his beard. "Does that hurt?" It was the most recently bruised side.

"A kiss from you? Never."

Karen tsked at him and pulled the sheet back abruptly.

"Hey," he warned, but she was already busy inspecting him.

"Bruise here… bruise there… scratches. Cuts." She kissed every place she deemed injured, and Lassiter was rapidly warming up to the idea of making love to her again forthwith. Possibly fifthwith and sixthwith.

Straddling him and bringing his bandaged wrist to her mouth, she kissed the gauze lightly. "Tell me about this."

He knew she wouldn't like it. Even only as his supervisor, she wouldn't like it.

However, her steady brown gaze was impossible to deny.

"I was shackled to a post, and spent a lot of time trying to change that."

Karen's expression was concern mixed with horror and a touch of ire. "Why did they take you in the first place?"

"Slick said I was an insurance policy. Decker thinks it's because he wanted something over on their mole."

"Who's Slick?" She was kissing his forearm now, leaning in closer.

"That was my pet name for the boss. I didn't see him much." He was having a little trouble concentrating; the sight of her nude body, as well as how it felt holding him in place, was a bit intense.

"The blood on your clothes. Was it all yours?" She let go of his arm and bent over him, her silky chest to his harder one, and his chest wasn't the only hard thing about him at the moment.

"No." He hoped she would leave it at that.

She didn't. She straightened up, legs clamped around him, the pink glow of the rising sun making her seem almost magical in its light. "I'm going to read the entire report, you know."

Lassiter sighed, stroking her smooth thighs as he began. "There were three guys in charge of me. Stench and I didn't get along from the outset."

"Stench?" A little smile.

"A term of endearment," he said dryly. "I called the others Blocky and Tooth."

A full-out grin now. "Okay. What was Stench's problem?"

"He wanted me dead. Slick had warned them all off but one day he came to visit alone." He really didn't want to say more. It was too fresh and too unsuitable for lying in bed naked with a new lover.

But his new lover was implacable. "Tell me," she whispered, her hands on his chest lightly. One over his heart.

"I got the upper hand using the chain. If Slick hadn't shown up, I'd have killed him. It was that close."

Karen searched his eyes; there was no censure in hers. "Survival."

"Yeah. I know." It made him uneasy. Being prepared to kill a perp with his service weapon, or being prepared to defend against a physical attack based on his training and experience—that was different from having a chain wrapped around a man's neck knowing that the man's death, up close and extremely personal, would be the inexorable outcome.

"So what did Slick do?"

"He shot him." A wave of unprofessional, wet-behind-the-ears-rookie nausea roiled through his gut. "Stench died with my chain around his neck."

Karen seemed to stop breathing. "Oh, Carlton…"

The nausea returned, bitter and acrid, and suddenly he had to get out of bed. "Give me a minute," he said, getting out from under her and moving quickly into the bathroom.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Karen put her Genesis t-shirt back on and stood at the window, looking out at the storm damage but seeing only the turmoil in Carlton's ocean-blue eyes. She hurt for him. She knew how he prided himself on his toughness and she also knew that no one, at all, _ever_, could possibly be prepared for what he'd experienced.

At times like this she was glad for department protocols: he'd be off work pending a standard psych eval because he'd been undercover and held captive, and she already intended to distract the hell out of him during his leave time.

That's if he ever came out of the bathroom.

_And oh, my sweet baby Iris, I love you very very much but I am so glad you're out of town with your father._

Pressing her forehead to the glass, she studied the tree which sprawled across her partially-flattened rented Jeep and simply did not care about that. She cared about the man in the other room.

Shivering, her mind wandered to memories of last night, or rather, earlier this morning.

The lightning had been witness to her discovery of his lean body, the muscles of his arms and legs, his warm skin, his deliciously persistent mouth and tongue: he was fully functional in every delightful way and the sheer emotional impact of making love with him resonated with her even now.

He was familiar and yet so wonderfully new. She didn't know whether the beard had something to do with it (and oh Lordy, there was _so_ much to be said for the friction of that beard against certain areas of her body) or whether her recent anxiety about him was a factor—or both—but Carlton Lassiter seemed like a mystery she already knew the ending to.

She knew where they could go. She just wasn't entirely sure how to get there.

And given the inner pain she'd glimpsed before he scrambled off the bed, she had to ask herself whether she had rushed him into… _this_, whether her own cravings were enough to justify the emotional overload it could have caused him.

The man had been held captive for nine days, with no certainty of escape. He'd been beaten and half-starved and had witnessed far too closely the murder of a man who was actively trying to kill him. Now his long-time supervisor, a recent divorcee with a six-year-old daughter, had pretty much mauled him without warning.

To say he had the right to have issues… well, yeah. He did.

A few people—most likely hotel personnel and guests—wandered onto the parking lot to check out the fallen tree. Its branches were long and lush and appeared to have taken out not just her Jeep but also a pickup parked next to it.

Karen still didn't really care. Actually, not having immediate transportation out of here was a bit of a blessing, because in an hour or so she could call the station and say "car trouble" with absolute honesty.

Behind her, the bathroom door clicked, and she watched Carlton cross the dim room. He was a fine sight, even underweight and bearing the marks of his captivity; from the fur on his chest to his long legs, she very much enjoyed his physical attributes.

However, she really had to put that aside, because his expression was still shuttered and she still may have made a big mistake rushing him.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, as he sat on the edge of the bed and—regrettably—pulled on his pajama pants.

"Not your fault." He came to her then, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "It's the job."

"I mean… for…" She foundered. "For being so…"

The familiar frown creased his forehead, his eyes a paler shade of blue than usual. "What is it?"

"For pushing you. For coming on to you."

The frown vanished and a smile lit his face. "Are you kidding me?" He slid his hands down to her hips, inching the t-shirt up. "Did I seem reluctant?"

"No," she breathed, as his fingers slipped under the tee to skim her stomach lightly. "But… I should have given you some time… I should have… oh, God…"

He was nuzzling her throat, one hand on her breast and the other curving around her backside, and Karen could not think, because she wanted him and was completely stumped as to why he'd put those damned pants back on.

"I was yours four weeks ago," he murmured, his breath warm on her jaw. "I was—" Abruptly he stopped, and pulled back to gaze at her with sudden alarm.

"What?"

"You regret this?" There was unmistakable horror in his tone, along with an unmistakable distancing of himself from her.

"No!" She grasped his arms to keep him close, and drew him down to kiss her, saying against his mouth, "Don't you ever think that. Ever."

He let out a sigh as she pressed to him, and she could feel the pounding of his heart under her cheek.

"I'm just concerned about you." She lifted her head to study him, and he remained silent, but he kissed her again gently, so she took that as a good sign.

From the dresser, her cell phone chimed. Carlton stiffened immediately and she knew why: thunder and lightning had been no disruption, but a ringing phone meant the outside world was pressing in again.

Damn the world to hell, then. She crossed the room and picked it up.

"Chief," Juliet said briskly.

"Good morning, Juliet," she said, for Carlton's benefit. He nodded, and began to collect what he needed to shower and dress. So much for the fantasy of showering together, but she _would_ give him space.

"I hope you were already up and getting ready for work?"

"In a manner of speaking. What's going on?" It was just past seven.

"Homicide at a high school during the storm last night. Two custodians seem to have gotten into it. I'm on my way over but since it's the mayor's alma mater, I thought you'd like a heads-up before you came in."

"You're right. But um, about that. I'm not entirely sure when I'll be in, so you'll have to keep me posted by phone."

"Oh. Everything all right?"

_Hmmm_. "Yes. I'm out of town at the moment. Not exactly sure where but at least an hour away."

Juliet paused. "You're not… sure… where you _are_?"

"It had been raining so hard for so long that honestly, I just pulled in at the first hotel. The thing is, a tree fell on my Jeep, so I—" She hesitated. _So I what?_

"Chief? You don't drive a Jeep." Juliet's tone suggested she was about to ask gently whether she'd keyed in the right number.

Karen took a moment to organize herself. She was the Chief of Police. Thinking on her feet was what she was supposed to be good at. Of course, nowhere in the personnel manual was it suggested that she should be barefoot and wearing _only_ a Genesis t-shirt while doing this thinking, but still.

And she might as well get it over with. "I rented a Jeep so I could get Carlton last night. His mission is over and I was bringing him home but the storm was so bad that we had to get off the road, and during the night, the storm knocked a tree onto the Jeep."

Juliet got straight to the point. "Carlton's coming home? That's wonderful." Then, in a sharper tone, because she was no fool, "Why did you have to go get him? Is he all right?"

"He's fine," she said automatically.

"Why did _you_ have to get him?" Juliet repeated.

"I wanted to. He's my head detective."

"And he's all right? Why couldn't he drive himself back—"

Karen cut her off. "O'Hara, relax. He's fine, and after his mandatory leave time and psych eval he'll be back at work. Send me the details so far on the homicide so I can handle whatever calls I get before I come in."

Juliet knew to leave it alone. "Understood. I'll update you ASAP."

Karen put the phone down and contemplated the room and the bed and her overnight bag and the bed and the window and the bed and those memories of what went on in the bed and the certainty that she'd somehow wrecked everything with Carlton just now and he was in the bathroom convincing himself she thought this was all a mistake and _dammit woman, pull yourself together_.

The phone rang again, and in the next twenty minutes she fielded four calls about the high school homicide, all from the comfort of that Genesis t-shirt.

Carlton emerged, mostly dressed, and she was about to go to him when the damn phone rang a fifth time.

"O'Hara," she said with more aggravation than she'd intended.

Juliet quietly gave her the update she'd requested, and then said, "I… may I talk to Carlton? Just to say hello?"

Panic. _She knows he's with me? She knows—? Oh, get a grip_. _She can't know anything; _I_ don't even know where we _are_!_ "Of course. I'll ask him to call you. Has the mayor's office sent a rep to the high school yet?"

"No, but McNab's keeping an eye out. Thanks, Chief. Tell Carlton no rush but I've missed him so… yeah, I'd love to hear his voice."

Karen had felt that way for nine days herself.

Carlton was standing at the window, buttoning up his shirt. He glanced at her curiously, and he was already so distant it made her heart ache.

"Juliet wants you to call her."

"Okay."

"Carlton—"

He jerked his head toward the parking lot. "They've already got the cavalry out there."

Karen crossed the room, took his arm and pulled him forcibly away from the world. "Listen to me. This is important."

He looked at her solemnly, his blue eyes dark with… uncertainty? Damn him.

"I regret _nothing_ about last night except that we can't spend today doing it over and over again." She put her hands to his face, stroking his beard and then running her fingers through his damp and curling hair.

His sigh was profound, and he let her kiss him, let her press to him, and he did respond, his mouth warm and seeking and his arms strong around her. For a few moments she felt as if everything could still be all right, and if he'd suggested she take off the t-shirt she would have said "thought you'd never ask" and let him have her right there.

But he only kissed her again, hands sliding down to her rear and tantalizingly under the tee, only for a moment, and a delicious moment to be sure.

The room phone rang and he let her go.

Karen put up her hands. "I'm not talking to anyone else for another fifteen minutes. It's probably about the Jeep anyway."

"I'll take care of it." He gestured toward the bathroom and she collected what she needed for her escape.

She moved as quickly as she could, but when she exited the bathroom, he was gone. She wasn't surprised, only disappointed in what his life experiences had taught him: that _any_ kind of danger was safer than trusting his heart… or the heart of someone who cared about him.

At the window, she toweled her hair and surveyed the action in the parking lot. A couple of guys were already out with chainsaws, clearing branches, and she spotted Carlton in the group clearing the debris.

He shouldn't be doing that, but she knew his mindset: action distracted the brain.

_This is going to be so hard._

But she knew it would be worth it.

She wasn't sure exactly when she'd accepted her intention to pursue this man—was it during the past nine days? Was it when she saw him on the steps of the cabin yesterday? Was it last night when they first kissed? Or was it before he ever disappeared, maybe on a night when with a glass of wine and the phone at her ear, she felt like all the right people were in her life at last, from Iris upstairs asleep with her stuffed horse to Carlton telling her about the fish he'd caught that afternoon?

Didn't matter.

She knew she had to go for this. _For him._

And if he resisted too long, she had handcuffs and a service weapon.

**. . . .  
****. . .**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was good to be King sometimes, Lassiter thought, or at least a servant to the Queen; Karen's job title carried considerable weight even outside of Santa Barbara, and as a professional courtesy, the local constabulary provided transportation to a car rental agency.

With new wheels, and luggage transferred out of the nearly-cleared and totally trashed Jeep, he and Karen were now sitting in what Deputy Lapham swore was the best breakfast joint in town.

Though Lassiter still didn't know what the hell town it _was_.

Karen told the waitress to upsize whatever Lassiter ordered, but he hadn't been planning to eat lightly: an omelet, toast, fruit, three gallons of coffee and a Danish were just the _start_ as far as he was concerned, and he was already well into his second cup of steaming caffeinated heaven.

He was trying not to be terrified that last night was just a dream. Karen was helping by… being herself. Her warm brown eyes and her matching warm smile, with the mid-morning sun lighting her skin and hair perfectly, were doing a lot to ease his mind (if not his pulse).

_She has no regrets._

_But does she really know what she's in for?_

"You had a tiff with the hotel clerk when you were checking out," he said abruptly. "What was that about?" He'd been waiting near the door and observed Karen and the clerk start a seemingly friendly exchange, but then the clerk said something—with a look of incredulity in Lassiter's direction—and she'd snapped something back at him; The End.

Karen's expression was tinged with annoyance (but not at him, thankfully). "He apologized for the lack of a rollaway and I said it didn't matter, because the chair was comfortable and the pillows helped."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"And he wanted to know why _you_ didn't sleep in the chair." She gripped her coffee cup rather tightly; Lassiter watched her knuckles whiten. "So I explained that _I_ wasn't the one who'd been shackled to a post in a dirt-floor cell for nine days."

His eyebrows were still up. "Ah."

"So he said thank you and have a nice day."

He grinned, because judging by the look on the clerk's face at the time, he suspected the man was still trembling back there at the hotel. "Thank you. Again. You've kinda been Wonder Woman for me the last eighteen hours."

Her response was to raise her arms and do a credible impression of Wonder Woman deflecting bullets with her wrist bands, and he couldn't help but laugh because it was so unexpected and yet somehow so very Karen.

"Iris loves that," she admitted. "We've watched some of the old TV series together. I tried to twirl for her once but it didn't work out so well for the lamp I was standing next to at the time."

"I'd like to see you in _that_ costume," he said without thinking, and Karen turned an interesting shade of pink. "Sorry."

Except it occurred to him that she didn't look embarrassed; in fact, she looked—and now he felt a flush on his own skin—aroused.

"I'll see what I can do." Her voice was low and deliberate and he felt warm in all kinds of places now and yeah, she really _didn't_ have any regrets, and yeah, that was good. It didn't necessarily mean anything about the future, but at least she didn't wish it hadn't happened.

Breakfast arrived and the deputy's word turned out to be gold.

Karen had ordered an omelet too and for a little while Lassiter was preoccupied entirely with eating real food that was neither chili nor from a vending machine, and as a bonus, served under proper lighting instead of in a dim damp concrete cell.

She had to take a few calls during breakfast, but nothing unduly complicated, or which caused him to think he should remove sharp objects from her immediate reach.

He'd called Juliet earlier while the Jeep was being excavated. She was pleased to hear from him—he didn't doubt her sincerity; she was a genuinely kind person and for some reason she liked him—and understood he wouldn't be back to work immediately. He offered up nothing of his experiences, because he couldn't, not to her and not so soon and definitely not over the phone. And since he was pretty damned sure Karen hadn't said anything to her about their accommodations, he kept that to himself as well.

Juliet asked him more than once if he was all right and he told her yes. _Yes. I'm fine._

_Are you sure? I just… I know you, Carlton. You don't sound fine._

_It's been a long assignment and I just need to rest._

_You don't rest,_ she insisted. _You should, but you don't._

_Don't worry about me, O'Hara. I'll be back in the station stomping on everyone in no time._

Her _Oh good!_ was cheerful, and he was glad, truly, for what was left of their friendship.

But the brown-eyed woman across the table from him, stirring coffee and giving him a warm and lazy smile, _she_ was the one on his mind.

"Where are you taking me?"

She blinked. "Back to Santa Barbara. Oh, you mean more specifically? To your doctor's office, where I'm going to exert my influence to get you an immediate examination and proper care for your injuries. Then I'll take you home and myself to the station to see about this high school homicide crap. Next week we'll make arrangements for your psych eval and mandatory time off."

Lassiter felt a familiar scowl building. "Time wasted."

"No, it's not. You know it's not. You just don't want to feel idle."

"Not after the last nine _days_ of being idle, no."

Karen glanced pointedly at his cheek and his wrist. "Idle?"

"None of that took up much _time_."

She rolled her eyes. "At any rate, if your doctor says it's okay, you can do whatever you want while you're off."

"Like _what_?" he protested.

"Well,"—and her tone was so reasonable—"me."

Lassiter's mouth hung open as his mind and hormones immediately fused. "I—"

"It's optional." She smiled. "But I need you to believe what I said earlier. I have no regrets, and I would very much like to continue down the road we were on before you ran into Slick and his boys."

He stared at her, lost between wonder and want. He tried again. "I liked where that road was going, Karen. You know I did. But…"

"But what?" She touched his hand gently. "Carlton."

Helpless to put everything into words, he was still staring at her when her phone rang for the six millionth time.

"I. Love. My. Job," she said through clenched teeth, and answered the call with an unusually sharp, "Karen Vick."

He finished his breakfast while she talked to yet another stupid person from the mayor's office, and then took the phone from her hand when it chirped again, sliding it into his pocket after silencing the ring.

Karen was beyond surprised. "You—you know I need that, right?"

"Finish your breakfast and you can have it back." He frowned. "Did I just sound like you talking to Iris?"

Now she laughed. "Yeah, actually, you did." But she relaxed and returned to her omelet, obviously relieved for the intervention, and when it turned out he'd lied and intended for them to each have another calming cup of coffee before this little break was over, she didn't seem to mind at all.

_I could do this every morning._

"I could get used to having breakfast with you," she said very quietly.

His heart skittered a little bit, nothing too serious. Nothing worth mentioning to the doctor, anyway. He murmured his agreement, and she gave him another one of those lazy smiles.

Their new ride was a sedan, less rugged than the Jeep by far (although being rugged hadn't saved the damned Jeep from a tree), but when they were buckled up and ready to head out, Karen hesitated before starting the engine (and he realized he'd never once even considered asking to drive; maybe he _did_ need that psych eval).

"What is it?"

She faced him, uncertain but with a look he knew well from of old—the this-won't-be-easy-but-I-have-to-ask look. "Why did he shoot Stench and not you?"

Juliet would have added _oh God_ _don't get me wrong of course I'm glad he didn't shoot you but why_? Karen merely looked at him, patient, wanting to know and willing to wait for the answer, and again, he could not deny her.

It was only something which… _happened_, past tense, because it was _over_. Words now; that was all.

"He said the camp would be better off and for me to remember he saved my life." He had to look away for a moment. "Donny. That was his name."

He hadn't seemed like a Donny. He'd seemed like… well, a Stench. Decker had given him a quick rundown of the man's history and it carried a stench of its own, but he was still… _dead_, and the shot still rang in Lassiter's head, and maybe he'd had too much breakfast after all because he felt ill again.

Karen touched his bandaged wrist. "When was this?"

"Day five."

Her voice was almost a caress. "What happened then?"

"Slick called the others to remove the body. Then he closed the door and I didn't see anyone until the next day."

He felt her hand trembling on his wrist… or maybe he was the one trembling.

She breathed out his name, but he still couldn't look at her. She would see too much.

"Some of your bruises are fresh."

Yeah, she'd been a good detective before being a good police chief. "The other guys thought a little retribution was in order." He glanced at her finally, seeing the tensing of her jaw, the anger on his behalf in her expressive eyes. "Karen, I don't… I can't… just let it go. Please. I'm okay."

"Don't say that," she said hotly.

"It's all right—"

"Don't say that either. It's not all right. _I'm okay_ and _it's all right_ are things people say to make other people feel better but I'm not _ready_ to feel better about what happened to you. No one should be ready for that until _you're_ ready."

He clasped her hand and she leaned over to kiss his face, cupping it with her free hand and sighing against his ear, and that may have been the exact moment he lost the last little piece of his heart to her, right that very precise second.

And he had to kiss her, and oh God did she kiss him back. All of the desire from last night rushed back at the sensation of her lips and tongue against his, and her breathing and urgency said she felt it all keenly too.

Her hair was so soft—somehow his fingers were moving through it—and she was about ready to come across the seat into his lap, of that he had no doubt, when a vehicle pulled up next to theirs in the diner parking lot and a door-slam broke them apart.

But not far. Karen was out of breath, but she managed to fix him with an almost unnerving gaze. "Promise me this, Carlton. Promise me you'll tell the psychologist everything. Don't downplay. Don't man up. Tell him everything."

He could hardly find breath of his own, and his hormones were wrestling for control of his brain.

"Promise me, Carlton. I won't ask for promises very often and God knows I hate ultimatums but this is important. This is crucial. And you must promise me, no matter how hard it is."

_I think I could promise you anything._

"I promise," he whispered, and she didn't smile or look triumphant. She only looked relieved, and tired, and beautiful, and she kissed him tenderly one more time, stroking his face again briefly before straightening out in her seat and starting them on the road back home.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

True to her word, Karen convinced Carlton's doctor's office to make an opening for him. She used her most effective Chief of Police voice, the one which even worked on Iris now and again, and the reception nurse—glancing nervously between her and the big baleful blue eyes of the patient in question—deduced that room _could_ perhaps be made in the schedule.

Karen waited, having advised the nurse who came to collect him that he would probably be at least moderately uncooperative (she knew he would keep his promise about the psychologist, but a mere GP was a whole 'nother ball game).

The nurse smiled knowingly. "Yes, ma'am; we're familiar with Mr. Lassiter."

Carlton was exasperated, but Karen laughed, and continued laughing to herself while she waited. It was sort of comforting to know he could drive other people crazy too.

He was out again in under half an hour, and sat beside her on the bench outside the waiting room; she'd had to relocate in order to take yet more phone calls about work.

"And?"

"I'll live."

"Carlton."

"Well, you saw it all yourself, Karen. Not like I have any secret injuries," he huffed, and that almost set her to laughing again (and definitely set her to remembering). "I'm battered and bruised but nothing's broken. He gave me an antibiotic for my wrist and I'll live."

"Head Detective's honor?" she persisted.

Carlton gave her a cheeky grin. "Stick a needle in my eye."

"Eww. Or so Iris would say."

"Juliet too. Iris is on her New Mexico trip, right?"

Karen was impressed. Touched, even, that he remembered. She'd told him during one of their late-night phone calls. "Yes. She's away for the next two weeks." She'd made a quick phone call to say hi on her way up to collect him yesterday. "So far she's having a great time."

He smiled, but suddenly looked tired.

She patted his arm. "Come on. I'll get you home."

But on the way to the car she stopped, because it occurred to her that his place had been empty for two months. There'd be no food, she wasn't keen on him ordering takeout just yet, and she was damn sure he wasn't up for a trip to the grocery store on the way.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Tomorrow," she said slowly. "Today I'm taking you to my house."

Carlton's eyes grew wide again. "But—"

She explained her reasoning, ending with a reminder that he'd been through a lot just in the past day and a little more rest and minor pampering might be a good idea before he tried to resume his normal routines.

He hesitated still.

"Humor me. Please."

"Karen."

"You're tired. You ache, probably all over. Your head is full of a lot of really complicated things right now. You need this."

He blinked, and the fight went out of him. "Okay. If it's no—"

She raised a hand preemptively. "Do not say 'if it's no trouble' or I will give you a reason to need _more_ aspirin."

"Yes, ma'am."

"That's better," she said with a grin, and whisked him away to her house.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Lassiter looked around while Karen keyed in the security alarm code. He'd only been here once before, when Iris was still a baby and the nanny agency was under investigation. It was spacious, bright, and large. He liked his condo but it was definitely lacking in the bright department. Actually the whole building was lacking in the bright department. It ranked pretty high in the weird-ass department, however.

Karen allowed him to carry his bag with his right hand, and wouldn't let him carry her overnight case. He followed her up the stairs, admiring the view because, _damn_, and at the top of the stairs she veered left into the master bedroom.

He waited in the hall, presuming nothing, until she called him in.

"Here's the thing," she said, her arms folded across her chest. "I was going to put you in the guest room but then I realized I can't."

"Why not? Look, I can stay in my condo. One night of dust and takeout food won't hurt me."

"No. I mean I can't because what would be the point? No matter where you sleep, I'm pretty sure I have to be with you. At least for tonight." Her eyes were so dark, so direct. "So you might as well stay in here with me."

He glanced between her and the bed.

"You can see it's a king. You won't even have to touch me."

Lassiter swallowed. "But… I _want_ to touch you."

She went pale, and then pink, and whispered, "Oh."

Lassiter did the only thing that felt truly right, and maybe flat-out essential: he crossed to where she stood, cupped her smooth face in his hands, and kissed her.

For long moments they stood together, his tongue tracing her lips, teasing her tongue, allowing her to do the same to him. It was gentle and sweet and dangerously erotic.

It stopped being gentle and sweet when she pulled his jacket off his shoulders and began to unbutton his shirt. "I shouldn't push you," she said breathlessly. "I should give you space. But dammit, Carlton, I want you so much."

He was removing her jacket and shirt too, and muttered, "Why in the hell would you think that would be a problem for me?"

A short, harsh laugh was all she managed before he kissed her again, his bare chest to her silk-covered breasts, and trauma and lack of proper sleep didn't prevent him from lifting her enough to dump her on the bed.

Last night had been a dream, a fragile dream in a storm-tossed world, but today in the high noon sunshine of her bedroom he was fully aware that this was real.

Real.

Happening now, to him, to her, to _them_.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Carlton peeled off her jeans and went to work on her bra while Karen squirmed her way to getting his shirt completely off and his belt out of the picture. It took some doing because he kept kissing her to distraction, but bit by bit they unclothed each other.

Finally achieving mutual full nudity, they lay together for a moment just drinking each other in. The places where her curves met his leaner, harder lines were on fire. He kissed her slowly, letting her taste everything about his wonderful warm mouth, pressing his body against hers.

She felt his aroused reaction to how she shifted and undulated beneath him, and wished she was coherent enough to be doing it deliberately, but it was something beyond her control. She was only trying to absorb him, and the more she moved, the closer they got, and that was what she wanted. Ultimate closeness.

_I'm glad I didn't notice you… the real you… while I was married. I would have been in serious damn trouble._

His beard tickled and tempted and tormented as he moved slowly down her body, planting a trail of kisses as he went, and she remembered all too well from last night how that beard felt against her skin when he reached his final destination.

She couldn't keep her fingers out of his hair, the waves and curls so tempting, so soft and thick and yet she forgot everything when he reached ground zero, flinging her arms wide and giving herself up to the pleasure—the fire which hadn't been completely banked for even one minute since last night.

Carlton worked her over relentlessly until she couldn't go another second without a deeper connection, and when _that_ was achieved with great and intimate shared joy, she looked into the depths of his ocean-blue eyes and wanted to stay there forever. In the emotion his eyes couldn't hide, not now.

They would hide much again, she knew that, but right now, right here, she could see into his heart. She only hoped he could see into hers as well.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Karen got to the police station just before three, feeling both harried and utterly relaxed, which was an entirely new sensation.

Carlton was still asleep in her bed. She had slipped out without waking him, determined that he should rest despite her apparent inability to keep her grubby paws off him, and left a note saying she'd be back soon and he should make himself completely at home.

Hard to imagine how much _more_ at home a man could feel when he was already nude and sated (for now), but then it was Carlton, so it was entirely possible he never felt at home anywhere. Ever.

She paused at Booking, ostensibly glancing at the messages which awaited, but all she was seeing was the two of them, together, making love, making _so_ much love, and she felt buzzed and thrilled and aroused and hopeful all at once.

People came at her in droves, updating her about numerous situations she could barely concentrate on, and when Buzz McNab said they'd just put on a fresh pot of coffee she knew that's what she needed… apart from more Carlton.

Juliet came to her office as soon as she was settled, and Karen forestalled any questions by asking for an update on the high school homicide.

"Looks open and shut. Two custodians came in early to deal with a leaky roof, but obviously their repair styles clashed, and since the deceased had a blood alcohol content of .11, it seems their disagreement escalated into blunt force trauma for him and a knife wound for the survivor." She handed over the case file. "It happened at five a.m. in the custodial supply room, no students within a mile of the premises. The deceased was a new employee and he and the doer only worked nights, so the students wouldn't even have known either of them."

"In short," Karen concluded, skimming the reports, "the media is having a great day bemoaning the danger of violence in schools despite the fact that this case has nothing to do with kids, teachers, guns, drugs, or even school."

"Well, the deceased _was_ pickled, but in his defense, he wasn't scheduled to work. He only got called in because of the leak."

Karen handed the folder back. "Sounds like you got it wrapped up fast, and I thank you very much. Anything else I didn't already get a hundred phone calls and messages about?"

Juliet grimaced. "Sorry. It's been a busy day. How's Carlton? You brought him home?"

"Yes. Most of the delay involved getting a new rental car." _Okay, so that was a lie. Most of the delay had to do with steamy sex once we got back._ Clearing her head, she added, "I'll send you a photo of the smashed Jeep later."

Glancing back at the door to be sure they were really alone, Juliet stepped closer to the desk and said earnestly, "Chief. Is Carlton all right?"

_Stay unruffled_. "Didn't you talk to him earlier?"

"Yes, but… you know Carlton. I can tell there's something going on."

"Juliet, you know I can't—"

"I know. I know you can't. But I'm his partner, Chief. I feel like I know him better than anyone and I know when he's hiding something but what I _don't_ know is whether I need to be worried about it or not. You don't have to tell me any details about what's wrong. Just… tell me… if something _is_ wrong. Please."

Her concern was genuine and Karen wondered _where were you these past months when you let your relationship with Shawn change your relationship with Carlton? Because _I _saw that too, you know. _I_ saw the distance growing between you_.

_You know him day-to-day better than I do, yes… but I intend to change that._

However, their years of partnership counted for something, and Juliet had a right to know at least the minimum. Even Karen in love wouldn't interfere with the bond between partners.

She gestured for her to close the door, and when Juliet was seated, she chose her words very carefully. "I won't say much. It's for Carlton to give details when he's ready."

"I understand." Juliet was tense, hands tight around the chair arms.

"He was… snatched by the subjects of the investigation. They kept him… chained up in an outbuilding for nine days until the CBI finally moved in."

Pale did not begin to describe Juliet's face. "Oh my God."

"He's all right," Karen forestalled her. "Physically he's going to be fine. But… it was difficult psychologically for a number of reasons and it's natural to assume he has a lot to work through. He'll tell you when he's ready, and if he's never ready, it's no reflection on you."

Juliet did not immediately relax, but eventually she did at least let go of the chair arms. "But he told _you_."

Karen knew that tone. It was Detective O'Hara's tone… and the tone of a woman who just found out she wasn't the only ally in town. It was _he's-_my_-partner-why-did-he-tell-_you_-any-of-it-at-all?_ tone.

"He really didn't have a choice once I pointed out that I'd be requesting the full report from the CBI."

_Plus I was sitting on him at the time and we were both naked. Moving on__**…**_

Looking at the floor, Juliet appeared to be deciding whether to ask for more. "Thank you," she finally said. "For telling me. Where is he now?"

"Resting, I hope." It was true. She _did_ hope he was resting. "I wouldn't rush a reunion right now."

Juliet gave her a sharp look. "I won't."

Karen knew her detective was contemplating crossing a line, so it was time to be Chief Vick again. "If there's nothing else, Detective, I need to get through some of these messages."

She wasn't happy about the dismissal, but she kept quiet and left the office.

One mine-field dodged.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Lassiter was mostly dressed and contemplating the contents of Karen's refrigerator when she came back home well past six.

He thought, _I should feel uncomfortable in someone else's house. In my boss's house. Why don't I?_

She put her keys on the counter and came toward him, and he thought, _I shouldn't know what my boss looks like naked. What she sounds like in pleasure. What she tastes like. I shouldn't know that._

She stepped into his arms and kissed him. "How are you feeling?"

He didn't want to talk. He just wanted to kiss her again, so he did, and she let him. He went on kissing her until her breath was coming in short gasps, just like his, and her body was grinding against his, and he knew exactly where to put his hand after he unzipped her jeans, just like she knew exactly where to put hers, and she guided him to an office in the hall under the stairs where there was a daybed, and they made love again without him ever having to tell her how he felt.

Although he was pretty sure she knew.

And he was pretty sure she wouldn't let him get away with silence forever.

Stroking his hair back, her warm brown eyes ever perceptive, she was close and warm in his arms. "You slept some, right?"

Lassiter nodded, catching her hand and kissing each finger. "How was the station?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "The usual. Juliet asked about you. I gave her the basic bare-bones outline and advised her to give you some space."

He wondered how that conversation had gone. One thing Juliet and Karen had in common was their intense curiosity and a strong need to know—not out of nosiness but out of a drive to solve a problem, to understand the big picture, to do what they had to do. But he could put Juliet off more easily (not that it was ever _easy_) than Karen, because Juliet was so innately kindhearted that she could be deflected if she thought it was more painful for him to tell than to keep it to himself.

Karen was tougher, more practical. As his supervisor, she hadn't had to draw a lot of secrets from him the way Juliet did, but when she asked for information, by God, he gave it to her.

Now… as his lover—a concept which still stunned him—the best he could hope for was to be able to stall her now and then.

And, more importantly, to learn to give no clues at all… which is why he wasn't going to tell her about the dream which jackknifed him out of bed an hour before she came home, leaving him drenched in sweat and yet unbelievably cold.

He wasn't easily shaken by trauma. His job was hard and often ugly and he'd seen death up close and personal before. But what happened with Donny Fallon was different, and he _would_ tell the psychologist. Not just because Karen made him promise, but because he knew he would not be able to compress, compartmentalize or in any way contain this on his own. Not with her in his life.

Grumpiness kept a lot of people at bay, sometimes even Juliet. But this woman… she would not be put off or fooled by attempts at evasion. God forbid he should have a dream like that with her next to him in bed. No way would she believe it was about the coming invasion of Olympia Dukakis' vegan army of harpists.

Karen sighed and drew him to lie on top of her despite his weight. "I want to be surrounded by you," she whispered.

Lassiter smiled, and felt hope along with arousal. She was so warm and soft and pliant. He worked his knee between her thighs and pressed to her, kissing her throat and shoulders.

"How did I get here?" he murmured against the swell of her breast. "Why do you want me?"

Karen's fingernails on his back gave him goosebumps. "I discovered the hidden Carlton in our phone calls. The man who had nothing to prove, no reason to hide, no incentive to bark. The man who gave me a chance to get to really know him."

He lifted his head to meet her gaze. "Because you wanted to know."

She kissed his forehead. "Others want to know too."

Lassiter pressed down harder against her, grinning. "Too bad; I'm a one-woman man." Then he felt like an ass. "Except for that whole cheating-on-my-wife thing. Crap; what a loser," he sighed, and rolled off her.

Karen followed, amused and determined at the same time. "I'm no fan of infidelity but you _were_ separated. Right? At her insistence?"

"Yeah, over a year. I was still telling everyone it was only a few months, Lucinda included."

"Okay then."

She had her hands on his shoulders and those insanely tempting strong thighs around his hips, and he let his fingers wander down her spine, making her shiver.

"It's still cheating," he pointed out.

"True, but it's different. She kicked you out and kept you at a distance and from what I understand, gave you no hope. You were lonely."

"Doesn't make it right."

"No, Carlton, it doesn't." Her tone was firm. "But it's… _different_. It's not like you were living together and actively _trying_ together. You were living alone and essentially single for all that time, and you needed someone."

He studied her, curious. "You're justifying my infidelity."

"No… no, I'm just saying you don't need to beat yourself up about it anymore. It's time to let it go. You're not a philanderer—that's not why your marriage failed. You're not made that way and anyone who knows you for more than ten minutes can see it. I can see it. I saw it as soon as I came in as Interim Chief."

"But you transferred Lucinda out."

She smiled. "That was a tumultuous time for the department and I still believe I did the right thing, no matter how painful it may have seemed to you both at the time. And honestly, Carlton? Selfishly? I'm _glad_ she's gone, because otherwise it might not be _me_ here about to do wicked things to you. Again."

Fresh desire curled through his lower regions, and it was time to stop talking. He pulled her down for a deep, intense kiss, and let himself explore all over again the warm, sensuous wonder that was Karen Vick.

**. . . .  
****. . .**

Karen drove Carlton to the grocery store on Sunday afternoon so he could stock up for his empty cupboards and fridge. His car was already parked in the garage there, so all he needed was transportation to the store and on to the condo.

She had found it surprisingly easy to convince him to stay with her—they spent a large chunk of their time fused together—and while there wasn't much conversation, she felt they were connecting in many, many perfect ways.

All the same, she knew something was wrong.

Well, obviously something was _wrong_, given what he'd been through. But this was a new wrong, and she didn't know—yet—what it was. Had he concealed something the doctor found?

Carlton was over in the dairy section and she was looking at produce, and a private smile curved her lips, because there was _nothing_ wrong with that man physically. At all. In any way. _Damn_. From his soft and wavy silver-touched black hair and beard to his cheeky Irish grin to his willpower-melting blue eyes to his long-fingered marvelous hands to his strong lean length… well… everywhere, and entirely _despite_ the lingering bruises, he was in wonderful shape.

Stamina, the man had in droves.

Shivering with more than one memory, Karen tried to compose herself.

His breath was warm on her cheek as he came up behind her. "Is there a reason you're staring at the cucumbers?"

She laughed and was surprised to feel her face warming. "No," she said tartly. "I was just momentarily distracted."

"By?" There was that cheeky grin again.

"I'll never tell." She bagged three cucumbers just to see the look on his face, and pushed his cart down toward the fruit.

_I don't want you to go home. _

But he had to. No part of his life had been "normal" for over two months and as much as she wanted to nurture him and heal him and make crazy monkey love to him, he had to get back to his regular life. Staying with her wasn't _helping_ him. It was just putting off the inevitable.

Didn't mean she wouldn't ask to stay at _his_ place, though.

_No, you stop that. Hussy._

They carried the bags up to his condo, and he fished out the key rather more slowly than she'd expected.

"You all right?"

"Yeah," he said, but didn't meet her eyes. He unlocked the door and they stepped inside.

The place was stale, airless, lifeless. Carlton looked around almost blankly for a moment before finally moving toward the kitchen, and while he put the groceries away she went to open the patio door and his bedroom window and get some air moving.

She was about to offer to do some dusting when it hit her: that blank look. She'd seen it before.

Friday night, or more like early Saturday before dawn, she'd woken suddenly from a heavy, orgasm-related-exhaustion sleep to the sound of a gasp and hard breathing. Rolling over in bed immediately, she saw Carlton sitting on the edge, facing away from her, shoulders hunched, and otherwise now silent.

"Baby?" she asked urgently, and she'd never called him that before but now it was _right_. She scrambled over to him but he was already turning and assuring her everything was fine.

_Leg cramp_, he said. But he looked blank—as if he had shut down. She'd never seen that look before: his expressive blue eyes always told a story about what he was thinking or feeling, whether here or on the job, but the story they told now was all darkness.

Exhaustion, she told herself. He got up and walked the room for a minute until the cramp subsided, and then got back into bed and held her close.

She felt he was trembling but it was so late and they were both so tired and when he assured her again _I'm fine… I'm fine… go to sleep_… she held on to him as tightly as he was holding her, and they slept.

Now that she thought about it… the wheels started turning. The wheels which made her damned good at her job even before she became Chief.

Saturday night, something similar happened. She'd woken abruptly and through bleary eyes saw him crossing the room, and after a moment, the light went on in the bathroom. She hadn't called to him, and had no sense of how long it really was until he returned, but it _seemed_ like a long time. It seemed like long enough for her to doze off, but she never looked at the clock so there was no way to know now.

Now she wondered why she'd woken at all. He was more than capable—if he'd just had to pee—of getting out of the big king bed quietly, and she was not so light a sleeper (despite Iris in her life) that any little sound would wake her. Cops had to learn to sleep on short notice, and sleep well, because sleep was a treasure and there was never enough.

_Carlton_, she thought, suddenly a little ill.

_You've been dreaming._

_And they're not good dreams, either._

She would make the arrangements for him to see the department psychologist the moment she got into work tomorrow. Carlton might not be willing to tell her—to worry her—but by God, he would tell the doctor, or she'd climb into his stubborn brain and go after the terror herself.

**. . . .  
. . .**

Lassiter put the last of the food away and made a note to contact the building super later to collect his mail.

It was odd to be here. He looked around the living area feeling as if he'd only just moved in, and couldn't remember why he'd liked it.

Then Karen came out of his bedroom, and he instantly felt the place brighten considerably.

Until he saw her face, her eyes; the hair on the back of his neck started prickling.

"Carlton," she said slowly. "That wasn't a leg cramp the other night, was it?"

_Crap. _

He'd hoped… he'd hoped so very much that he'd have more time before she figured it out.

"Carlton."

"No," he said levelly. "Please don't ask me."

She looked wounded for a moment, but then visibly steeled herself. "I won't. I just wanted to know if I was right. That you're having nightmares."

Lassiter sighed, still so weary. When was he going to feel right again? When they weren't actually in the middle of making love, he was worn out, and he wanted to believe it was just post-coital exhaustion, or leftover from his stay in Chez Concrete, but he couldn't anymore.

Karen came to stand before him, not touching him. "You will get past this, you know."

"I know."

"And I want… I _need_ your honesty. I hope for your honesty."

"What I tell you will always be true."

Karen's eyebrows went up. "That's pretty clever. Lets you skip over a whole host of things so long as you don't say them out loud, right?"

"Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law," he said dryly.

"Well, this is the court of _Karen_."

He studied her, and wanted to give her everything, every part of him, from heart to soul to stupid-nightmare-tormented brain. But right now… today… all he could do was repeat himself. "Whatever I tell you, Karen, will _always_ be true."

Shaking her head, she came closer and gripped his shirt, standing on tiptoes to kiss him. "Okay, baby. Okay."

One more kiss, and then she added softly, "For now."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Karen put the phone down with a sense of relief. The department psychologist, while declining to meet with Carlton personally due to Carlton's long-standing bias against the man, had given her a referral to a doctor he assured her was very patient and at the very least wouldn't have to get past old grudges.

The appointment was set for Wednesday morning, and _she_ felt better already.

Carlton had asked her to stay with him Sunday night. She'd hoped he would—hoped it wouldn't even be a question—but was prepared to back off and give him some room.

After dinner, standing at the patio door with a glass of wine while she curled up on the loveseat, he turned to her and simply said, "Stay."

"Yes."

A faint smile relaxed his stern features. "And for your trouble—"

"It's no trouble. I'll just have to leave here a little early to go by my place before work."

"For your trouble," he repeated, "I… I promise not to claim a leg cramp."

Karen was beyond moved. He was offering her the honesty she asked for despite what it would cost him.

Carlton lowered his gaze to the wine. "I won't promise to tell you _what_ I dream, but I won't pretend it didn't happen."

She held out her hand and he came to her, setting his glass on the coffee table and sitting next to her, close and warm. "Thank you."

He shook his head. "Don't thank me until you've made it through the night unscathed."

Karen kissed his face, stroking the beard she was going to miss very much when he shaved it off. "I'll adjust my dayplanner."

When he smiled this time, it was full-out, and she thought again that seeing him happy—so many times in the past few days, despite his internal struggles—was the best gift he could ever give her, a thousand times better than any object a store could sell.

He was _happy_. And so was she, in a way she'd forgotten was even possible.

Stirred from her reverie by McNab coming in to give her some reports, Karen debated about whether to call Carlton or leave him alone awhile. Not like she didn't have five billion things to do, and maybe he was still sleeping. She hoped so. There weren't any incidents during the night, but he hadn't seemed very rested when she left him.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter lay on his back, arm over his eyes.

_It's just sleep, you idiot. Try it. Even a little is good for you._

He had kept his promise to Karen the only way he could: by not sleeping at all. He lay beside her, listening to her even breathing, and did not let himself fall asleep. It wasn't easy, because dear God he was _so_ hellaciously tired, but he wasn't taking any chances. He was not ready to wake up in gasping shock—as he had the last two nights—and admit it to her while it was still so fresh.

After she left, he went back to bed, thinking _now, now you can just give in, sleep until the dream comes and be done with it_.

Nothing doing.

Every little noise in the condo was magnified. Every place the sheet touched him was annoying. The pillow was wrong. The curtains let in a shaft of light which pierced his eyes.

_Think about Karen. Think about last night. _

Making love with her was the single most perfect and fulfilling act of his life. It surpassed graduating from the Academy. It surpassed making Head Detective in his early thirties. For damn sure it surpassed every moment of his marriage including his wedding day.

_Be fair, you ass; you did love Victoria._

_Yeah, but not like this._

_Oh, so now you're admitting it's love?_

_What the hell else could make me feel this way?_

_Then why can't you tell her about the dreams? About those last few days in the concrete cell? About how your mind went in manic circles for hours on end, remembering being about to kill Donny Fallon, remembering having his blood splatter on your face and clothes when Slick shot him first? About how you barely fought back when Blocky and Tooth came along the next day to administer retribution because you felt so guilty about everything even though you know damned well none of was even your fault?_

_Well. I did say he stank. Didn't exactly warm him up to me, did I?_

_You're an idiot._

Lassiter rolled over in bed again_. Go back to thinking about Karen_, he advised himself. _There_ lay happiness. Respite. Peace. Deserved or not, it was happiness.

His cell phone rang and he grabbed for it; anything to stop the internal arguments.

"Carlton!" Juliet said happily in his ear. "How are you?"

"Hey, O'Hara. I'm good." So easy to lie.

Although, really, most of the time he'd ever said it, it was a lie. _Eh, details._

"Are you busy? Did I wake you? I thought you might be resting."

The clock said it was nearly ten. "No, I'm up. Sorry I haven't called before now. I've been…"

She interrupted while he was still choosing the right word. "It's okay. I…Vick did tell me you'd had a rough time. I imagine you need to decompress. Listen, I know it's short notice but I'd really like to see you, partner. Can we have lunch today? My treat."

It seemed like a lifeline, an opportunity to get out of his own head for awhile, and she wouldn't push him… much… as long as he didn't let her get her foot in his mind's door. They set the time and place and he got out of bed feeling as if he were getting away with something.

_Take that, bastard nightmares. Take that._

Karen called while he was dressing. She had a moment alone in the office, she said, and wanted to check in and see how he was feeling.

He told her very sincerely that she had a wonderfully warm phone voice and everything was better when they were talking.

Karen said, obviously touched, "What a remarkably sweet thing to say. You just made the Chief of Police blush."

It was true, too—even when she terrified him by behaving in a way contradictory to his previous experiences with women (meaning, she cared about him and let him make love to her and didn't seem fazed by his personality), he would still rather be terrified by Karen Vick than becalmed by anyone else.

She added, "Did you just slide past telling me how you were doing?"

Lassiter had to smile. "Sorry. I'm okay. Still tired. O'Hara called awhile ago. We're having lunch."

"She misses you."

"Hard to see why."

"Carlton," she said with exasperation, but let it go. "I set up your appointment. It's Wednesday morning at 9:30 with Dr. Matthew Gentry. I'll email you his address."

"Not the department hack?"

"Erlich is not a hack. You just never gave him a chance."

"Like I was about to bare my soul to the same man everyone else was baring their souls to," he muttered.

"Haven't you ever heard of doctor-patient confidentiality? Wait, don't answer that; I _know_ you have, because as a cop you've run into that brick wall plenty of times. You know he doesn't discuss individual sessions with anyone. He can't. It's the _law_."

"Yeah, well, as a cop I've also encountered a fair number of people who _break_ laws. Repeatedly."

Karen sighed. "Look, it doesn't matter. The point is you will go see Dr. Gentry and you'll be forthcoming with him. For... for _our_ sake, Carlton."

God, she could twist at his heart with simple, honest… _caring_. He really did not deserve her.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was sitting in the shade of an umbrella on the patio of the restaurant she'd suggested, looking fresh and pretty as she always did. Her glance slid past him when he approached the table, but zoomed back in as she registered that the guy with the beard and longish hair was someone she knew.

"Carlton!" she exclaimed, jumping up to give him a hug. "My God, I didn't recognize you!"

He took his wrought-iron seat across from her, tugging at the beard. "Better take a picture. It won't be around much longer. Department policy."

"I will," she announced, and got out her phone to snap a shot. "Wow. It's amazing. How are you, partner? I've really missed you."

He told her he'd missed her too and he supposed he had—of _course_ he had; she was a perpetual ray of light—but the truth was it was mostly in the first few weeks of his assignment (before his conversations with Karen started; before his heart began to run amuck) that he'd felt her absence.

They placed their orders and got their drinks, and she leaned across the table to speak quietly. "How did the mission go? Other than... I mean, was it successful?"

Had there been an upside to his captivity, she meant. Apart from the incredible upside of his new relationship with Karen—and he suddenly realized she'd find out about them eventually. Crap on a cracker; he might have to tell his partner he was sleeping with their boss.

In _love_ with their boss.

_Focus_. "Yes. They brought in most of the players and broke up the drug ring. It was a... qualified success."

"Qualified?" she repeated, dark blue eyes intent.

"One guy made it out."

Slick. Zach Boyles. The man whose face, as he fired the gun, was ever in Lassiter's dreams at night.

He realized Juliet was speaking again, and tried to focus, but then saw something behind her which made him give it up. On autopilot, he reached for his wallet and got out a twenty dollar bill, sliding it across the table.

She frowned at him. "What's that for? I told you I was buying."

"I know, and I appreciate it, but I can't let you pay for a meal I'm not sticking around to eat." He jerked his head and she followed his gaze.

Spencer was at the opposite end of the patio, thus far on the correct (street) side of the rail, having a discussion with a waiter who didn't seem inclined to unlock the gate for him.

Juliet's mouth dropped open in shock. "Oh my God. I can't believe he followed me here!"

_Huh._ I_ can't believe you can't believe it. _

He stood up, taking one last swig of his iced tea.

"No, wait, Carlton, please. I'll get rid of him." She sounded determined. Pissed off, even.

"Nobody can get rid of Spencer, O'Hara." Lassiter knew it all too well. "I'll catch up with you later, okay?"

He patted her shoulder and walked away rapidly, but before he reached the safety of the interior of the restaurant, he heard the start of their 'conversation.'

Spencer called out, as if genuinely surprised, "Hey! Where's Lassie going?"

Juliet's response was an angry, "What are you _doing_ here, Shawn?"

Spencer expressed yet more surprise, and while Lassiter was impressed by the fury in O'Hara's tone, he was sure it would be to no avail.

_I think I was better off single than she is right now._

_So you're not single anymore?_

He caught his reflection in the glass exit door, and saw he was smiling.

_No. I'm not._

_Oh. Then you're going to tell Karen about—_

_Shut up already. I'm working on it. _

Juliet called before he got very far down the road.

"Carlton, I am _so_ sorry. I told him I was having lunch with you but I never said where or when. I just can't believe he followed me."

_Again: why not?_

"I swear, I would never intentionally spring him on you like that."

"I know. It's all right. Listen, I'm thinking about swinging by the station later. Maybe I can take you out for coffee."

"Oh, yes, please, only I am definitely buying this time."

"At least you got good takeout from lunch."

"I would have," she said grimly, "except Mr. Tapeworm ran off with one of the boxes."

He couldn't even work up a snarky retort. He was too tired.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter took care of a few been-out-of-town-awhile things like having his car serviced, then drove to the station. He texted Karen to warn her he was coming in, and she texted back that she would only let him stay long enough to tempt her and then he had to leave.

It was the damnedest thing, really. From the moment he walked into the station, he felt like he was surrounded by actors and actresses posing as his long-time co-workers.

They had to be fakes, because... because they seemed glad to see him.

Reactions to the beard were unanimously positive. He was shocked by the outright smiles from a couple of the women.

McNab wasn't the first to hug him—Dobson bear-hugged him before he saw it coming, and Miller backslapped him while grinning like he'd just found his long-lost brother.

_Where the hell am I?_ he wondered. _Did I get out of bed at all? Is this—holy ever-loving crap, is this a GOOD dream?_

Dream or not, it _was_ definitely good: Karen came to the door of her office, arms folded, expression amused. "Detective Lassiter. It is very, _very_ nice to see you back on our turf."

McNab was beaming. Lassiter shook his head in wonder—thanking everyone with sudden deep embarrassment—before entering Karen's realm. She closed the door and took a seat at her desk.

"What the hell just happened?" he asked, totally confused. "What did you say to them?"

Now she was confused. "What do you mean? I didn't say anything to anyone. I didn't even know you were coming down until I got your text."

He sank into the chair, still stunned. "They're… they're acting like they missed me."

Karen laughed. "Most of them probably did miss you."

"But why? Karen, I swear my doctor said I didn't have any kind of head injury, so I know my memory's intact. Especially about whether people like me or not."

One eyebrow up, she said wryly, "Your memory may be excellent, but your perceptions are a bit skewed. I'm afraid you're going to have to man up and admit you're… just… not that bad."

His mouth hung open. "I can't do that, Karen."

She laughed out loud again. "I would really like to sit in your lap and do things to force you to admit I'm right. Look, you're not a sunny guy, and maybe you're not first in line to sign a birthday card or say good morning or be 'nice,' but they know you. They know you're hard-working, loyal, dedicated, and damned good at your job. They know you'll tell them when they do good work as well as correct them when they do wrong. They know you bring order to the department and they can look to you for leadership. You also have a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor and know how to tell a fish story." She pointed a pen at him. "In point of fact? You, Carlton Lassiter, are _not_ reviled by your co-workers."

He blinked.

Karen grinned.

"That may be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." He grinned back. "I wish you _could_ come sit in my lap."

The look in her warm brown eyes was enticing and he had to take a deep breath—so did she—to compose himself.

"What brings you here?" she inquired more briskly. "You know you're on leave pending—"

"Pending clearance, yes, I know. I wanted to check in with Decker, mainly. I also told O'Hara I'd buy her a coffee."

"Didn't you just have lunch?"

He grimaced. "I bailed once Spencer showed up."

"What? She invited Shawn to lunch? My God, what was she _thinking_?"

Lassiter was startled again, this time by the ferocity of her annoyance. "She _didn't_ invite him. He followed her."

"Good Lord. What's it going to take…" Karen trailed off. "Never mind. We can't solve that mystery."

"No detective can solve that mystery," he agreed. "How's Iris today?"

He loved seeing how she smiled at the thought of her daughter, and hoped this dream world with her would extend long enough to allow him to get to know the little girl.

"She and her father were on their way to the meteor crater. She saw some photos of it recently and wants to know how long it took the kids to dig it out."

"The kids?"

"Ancient kids," she elucidated. "She learned the word _ancient_ recently from a DVD and uses it all the time. Even on me."

Lassiter laughed. "Don't disown her yet. I want to meet her."

Karen's eyes grew wide and then she blushed and... well, she looked misty. "I want you to meet her, too, Carlton. Very much."

Suddenly he couldn't quite settle his pulse, but he managed to say, "I assume she's a little taller than when I last saw her."

"A little, yes," she agreed, and paused to blow her nose. "Wow. I'm really having a hard time not jumping on you right now."

That sent a little electrical cavalry charging down his spine and around front to his nether regions, but he held her gaze. "Hold that thought until tonight, Karen."

"God, you know I will." Her voice was almost a whisper, and he needed to get out of here right now.

Standing abruptly, he headed for the door. "I won't stay long, I promise. Call me before you leave tonight and we'll make plans."

She nodded, and he left before he could stride back across to her desk and take her anyway.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He and Juliet had their coffee without Spencerization, and she again apologized for the intrusion.

"He did invite himself, but I told him no." She gave him a sheepish smile. "He said he missed you."

"Of course he did. I'm his favorite target." He said it without rancor, and to her credit, she didn't bother to argue.

"It's been hard to control him on the job since you've been gone."

He raised one eyebrow. "O'Hara, that implies it's _easy_ when I'm _here_."

She laughed. "Well, it's been hard_er_. Henry reduced their pay on two cases because of how much food they ate from the victims' houses."

Lassiter was impressed. "Good for Henry." He and Karen had seldom discussed Spencer in their phone conversations, and never his casework. "I'll be back in a few weeks to clamp down on him for you."

"I won't be the only one thanking you," she said flatly.

It occurred to him that _she_ might have roused the troops to their inexplicable show of support earlier. "Is _that_ why everyone acted like I was a returning hero today? They just want me around to rein in your boyfriend?"

She was taken aback. "What are you talking about?"

"You told them I was coming by and asked them to pretend to be glad to see me?"

Juliet looked incredulous. "Pretend? _Carlton_. You've been gone two months. People missed you. I missed you. Buzz _really_ missed you. I think even Chief Vick missed you!"

_Even Chief Vick_, he mused. "She pretty much said I was on crack for thinking everyone was… faking it."

"You _are_ on crack if that's what you think," she declared. "Now when are you coming back to work exactly, partner?"

He said, "Not soon enough."

But he thought, _I'm not ready_.

And for Carlton Lassiter to not be ready to work alarmed him more than a little.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They stayed at his place again, making love once before dinner and once again after, on the floor in front of the muted TV, and Karen could neither believe how much she wanted him nor conceive of how she could ever get enough.

A long, leisurely and oh-so-sensual shower led them on to his bedroom, where he wrapped his arms around her and murmured a quiet thanks.

"For everything," he clarified. "And don't tell me you haven't done anything anyone else wouldn't do."

"I hope you wouldn't let anyone else do you," she shot back, and kissed his smiling mouth.

"Not a chance." His tongue trailed across her lips as his ever-wandering hands moved on her back. "Never again."

She couldn't help but feel a flush of pride and possessiveness—and yet more arousal—at the way he said it. Like it was some immutable fact.

... like it was the same thing _she_ felt.

Yes.

Karen touched his face, his temples; she kissed his forehead and his cheeks. He was clearly still so very tired and the dark circles under his incredibly blue eyes actually made them stand out more. "Double damned ditto," she whispered, and he smiled for her again.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The bed was moving and someone was yelling and Karen had no idea where she was for a moment.

Then awareness kicked in: Carlton was sitting up, gasping for air as if he'd been running for hours. His hands were tight over his face and when she touched his arm urgently he was sweating.

"Baby," she pleaded. "You're okay, baby. I'm here."

His voice was hoarse. "What if you're here and it's still not okay?"

Karen grasped his arms, but he would not come to her. He would not uncover his eyes.

After drawing another shuddery breath, he spoke again.

"What if... what if it's _never_ okay?"

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Karen was tugging on his arms.

He didn't know what he was saying to her but her voice came through, pushing through the heavy murk of his panic and pain.

"Carlton. Carlton, please. Come on, baby. It _will_ be okay."

He wanted to believe.

She was pleading, but firm, and then stronger. "It _is_ okay, honey, because I _am_ here, and I'm here because... because I love you."

In his head, the noise began to abate... as if afraid to get in Karen's path.

"I love you," she said again, in a whisper this time, and yet it was a purer, more crystal clear sound than _everything_ else.

He let her pull his trembling hands from his face, and stared at her in the dim light.

She was kneeling beside him, still grasping his forearms, leaning in close, earnest and so very _there_. Naked and unarmed, she was _there_—as _his_ protector—stronger than if she were clad in Kevlar and carrying an AK-47.

The moonlight through the gauzy curtains, as they moved in the night breeze, cast a faint glow to her fair skin, and her dark gaze was intense and unmistakably loving.

"Baby," she murmured, and kissed his forehead, letting go of him so she could stroke his hair back off his damp forehead. She kissed his cheeks and temples and moved to straddle him, and it wasn't sexual but it was exactly right.

_Exactly_.

Lassiter groaned and gathered her against him, hard and close, and he didn't feel the headboard pressing into his back, or the aches in his body, or the sweat now cooling on his skin.

He only felt her heartbeat and her breathing and her love, and smelled her hair and her skin, and bit by bit the shards of the dream backed off, skittered away into the shadows in his mind, until there was nothing left but Karen in his lap, wrapped around him like the softest, gentlest blanket in the world.

"Oh God," he breathed.

"You're okay." She kissed his face again tenderly. "You're okay, baby."

He was. He was okay _now_.

"Karen," he managed, and that was all he could say.

Her fingers were so light on his temples, in his hair. So loving.

She didn't say anything else except "Come here," and he didn't say anything else except "Yes," and they lay back down together. Karen pulled the sheet up over them and placed her hand over his heart, kissing his shoulder before resting her head there.

Covering her hand with his, and breathing in the scent of her—the _love_ of her—Lassiter closed his eyes.

And it was okay, just like she promised.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Stirring creamer into her coffee, eyes a bit bleary, Karen tuned out the sounds of the station around her, remembering the brief terror from last night and then the languor of this morning.

She'd woken to the sensation of Carlton kissing her everywhere, working his way down her uncovered form as she slowly returned to full awareness of where she was and whose lips were trailing kisses across her stomach.

"Good morning," he said against her navel, his voice and breath creating a pleasing vibration which somehow caused her legs to part.

Already wanting him desperately, Karen clutched his shoulders and simply let him have his way with her. He spent a long time exploring her body, leaving her weak and shaking with desire, and he never said a word in the process.

When they were face to face again and Carlton sank into her—claiming her—his Mediterranean-blue eyes sent a message he had no need to vocalize.

But he did later as they spooned, his lean arms strong and warm around her midriff and his breath tantalizing the skin of her throat.

He said, "I love you."

Karen sighed profoundly and turned her face for his kiss.

"You knew." He kissed her again, smiling. Oh, how she loved that smile. The way it lit his eyes from within astounded her every time.

"I hoped," she corrected.

"You _knew_," Carlton countered, and turned her in his arms. "Thank you for last night."

She only squeezed him tight. "Thank you for trusting me. How's your head today?"

"Quieter." He allowed her to slip one leg between his. "I'm ready for that appointment tomorrow."

"Good. I'm so glad." Resistance to being helped would waste far too much time.

"It was one hell of a leg cramp," he added dryly.

Karen laughed, sliding her fingers into his hair again, loving its softness. "I do love you, you know. It's soon, maybe, but it doesn't really feel soon."

"No. It feels..." He hesitated, a slight frown marring his forehead. "It feels like things have shifted into their proper places."

_Yes_. That was just right.

Now, three hours later, she hoped again he was sleeping—he still needed so much rest—and hoped even more fervently that this Dr. Gentry would be someone he could let his guard down with.

Carlton wasn't good with trust. But she knew he trusted her, and prayed he could find it in his wounded psyche to trust Dr. Gentry too.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter found his way to the shooting range after lunch. He didn't anticipate being on leave more than another week or so, and he hadn't fired a weapon since before his undercover assignment started.

Plus, it always cleared his head. Juliet said this made no sense, that the noise alone would be too distracting, but to Lassiter, the controlled explosions drove back most everything dark from his mind: insecurities, annoyances… memories. Only chance could misdirect the bullet; everything else was under his control, in a world where it seemed precious little was—or more accurately, that the control he so determinedly fought for could be so easily disrupted.

Case in point: when he headed back to his car, Spencer was sitting on the hood cross-legged, palms up as if he were meditating.

Guster was leaning against his ridiculous Echo. "Lassiter!" He approached at once, hand out in greeting.

Bemused, Lassiter shook it. After yesterday's strange experience at the station, he'd decided he should just take whatever seemed to be friendly at face value. For now. Besides, he sort of liked Guster despite Spencer's influence over him.

"Guster."

"Station hasn't been the same without you. Everything go okay with your assignment?"

Lassiter shrugged. "Bad guys got caught, so yeah." _Most of them, anyway._

Spencer slid off the car, grimacing in pain. "I really gotta warm up before I try to hold that position long. So Lassie, what gives? Why'd you run away yesterday?"

"I didn't want to intrude on your lunch with O'Hara," he said blandly.

Guster frowned. "Wait. I thought she was having lunch with you?" Then he glared at Spencer. "Shawn. Did you crash Juliet's lunch with Lassiter?"

Spencer protested. "I was merely passing by and saw two familiar faces! Or one familiar face, anyway, and this guy with the _awesome_ beard."

"Just passing by?" Guster challenged. "Didn't you say you couldn't have lunch with me because you were stuck at home mopping your floors?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Seriously. Gus. You _believed_ that?"

"Of course I didn't believe it, Shawn. You haven't touched a mop since the Bush administration. I'm just pointing out that you lied to me, and now you're lying to me _and_ Lassiter."

"But if I lie to you, and you know I lie to you, and I know you know I lie to you, and you know I know you know I lie to you, isn't that almost the same as telling the truth?"

Lassiter felt tired again. "Good talk, Spencer. Excuse me." He brushed past to get to his car door, but Spencer got in his path again.

"Lassie. _Lassiter_. Look. Jules chewed on me pretty good yesterday so I wanted to apologize for trying to crash. You're part of my extended… acquaintance-like… distant cousin-ish… family, I guess, and you've been gone a long time and I just wanted… to say… hey."

He looked down wearily at the aging man-child. "Hey."

Spencer seemed to want more.

Too bad, really. "Can I go now?"

"No. So why'd you run from your own reunion lunch? Why didn't you just threaten to shoot me if _I _didn't leave?"

"Well, for one thing I wasn't carrying a weapon. For another, O'Hara doesn't like it when I threaten to kill you in public places. And finally, Spencer, I just didn't have enough energy to deal with you yesterday."

Spencer blinked. "Energy? What's that mean? I'm, like, draining?"

Guster nodded along with Lassiter.

"But you're fueled by caffeine and fine Irish ire, Lassie. You're operating at top speed 24/7. Plus you just came back from vacation."

"Uh, Shawn? He wasn't on vacation. He was undercover."

"I've heard it both ways. And Gus, come on! We've seen this man work multiple double shifts and still be ready for more. He doesn't run down and he doesn't get tired, and he's never, _never_ been mellow. At least not to me." He inspected Lassiter head to toe. "But look at him. He's… what is he?"

"He's tired."

"Why's he tired? Why's Supercop out of energy?"

"Probably because you ate his lunch yesterday." At Spencer's sharp look, Gus added defiantly, "Yeah, I saw that to-go box in the trash."

"Trash-snooper," Spencer huffed.

Lassiter ran his hand through his hair, feeling the old impatience tickling at the edges of his weariness, and he thought, _screw it. Just freaking screw it._

"I'm tired because I was held prisoner for nine days, shackled to a post in the dark. I'm tired because I got beaten up most of those days. I'm tired because I've been having screaming nightmares every night. I'm tired because I'm trying to readjust to a life that used to be familiar but just isn't anymore. And you're high maintenance, Spencer; high maintenance, high drama and half the time maybe just high. I don't know. All I can tell you is I simply don't have the energy for you right now. Thanks for the hey, and goodbye."

He nodded at a stunned Guster, saw speechless Spencer finally noticing the white bandage on his wrist, and didn't have to push very hard to get to his car and drive away.

From a Starbucks near the beach, he texted Juliet while waiting for a venti. (He had a lot of missed coffee to make up for.)

His text to her was: _I may have just gone off on your boyfriend but I swear no one was injured_.

Her answer: _What did you do? That is, what did he provoke you into doing?_

_He wanted to know why I was tired, and I told him._

_Did you tell me?_

_I would have yesterday. _

Well, maybe.

_:-( Where did this happen?_

_He and Guster stalked me over to the shooting range._

_! ! ! You should have used them as targets. Shawn first. _** :-|**

Lassiter grinned. Maybe there was hope for Juliet.

Sitting in the sun with his venti, he reflected that as annoying as Spencer was, he might be able to fully accept Juliet's relationship with him if it seemed to make her happy… but most of the time it didn't.

It was neither his problem nor his business, of course, except that a happy Juliet was a better cop, and she'd been dangerously distracted the past year.

The phone rang, and he glanced at the screen. Karen.

A warmth more benevolent than the sun infused him, and he wondered how long it had been since a simple name on a screen had brought so much... contentment.

"Hello, Chief."

"Hello, Head Detective. I have a few minutes before a meeting and I wanted to hear your voice."

"Oh? I can read you your rights."

"Actually," she said in a very low, private-just-for-him tone, "I wanted to remind you I love you."

More warmth. All-encompassing. "Luckily that happens to be one of your rights." He waited for her laugh. "I'm outside Starbucks, coming down off a run-in with Spencer, and I love you too, Karen Vick."

Her pleased sigh was music to his soul. Then she cleared her throat. "What happened?"

"Somehow," he admitted, "I gave him a capsule version of my life the past two weeks."

Pause on her end.

"Leaving out my _love_ life completely, that is." _Hell, yeah._

"Oh, good." Her relief was clear. "Thought you might have lost your mind."

"Not yet. You know, I always wondered how he got people to tell him things and now I know: he just wears them down to a nub. It's basically Chinese water torture. He could be a tool for the government."

"He can be a tool whenever the mood hits him," she countered, and her tone very much suggested she had a different meaning in mind.

Lassiter detailed the conversation for her and capped it off with, "The funny thing is, I don't care. I _should_ care. I know he's likely to bring it up at every opportunity. I know he's likely to make references to _Lassie _being on a chain. I know he'll start making remarks about dungeons and—"

"Stop," she said angrily. "One word out of him? _One_ word and he's fired. Forever. Henry too. I will not have you mocked. I won't have anyone mocked who went through what you experienced. How _dare_ he—"

"Easy, Karen. Easy." He was still surprised every time she defended him like this. "It's all right. I'm used to him now."

"You shouldn't be," she snapped. "There's no excuse for him to treat you the way he does. In fact he'd better not show his face at the station today or he might find me slapping it on general principle. I'm ashamed that I've let him carry on the way he has all these years. I'm not sure I can even make it up to you."

He considered getting into the car and driving directly to her office to kiss her, but settled on something more practical (she did have that meeting coming up). "Listen. It's all right. After everything else that's happened, Spencer seems more like a gnat than a wasp. Still annoying as hell, but easier to ignore. Plus he hasn't actually said anything yet. I left before he could pick his jaw up off the ground."

Karen let out a breath. "Okay. That's better then. How'd Gus take it?"

"He may have wet himself. I didn't stay long enough to verify."

Now she laughed, and once again he couldn't believe the _truth_ of her presence in his life.

"Karen," he said quietly. "I can't wait to see you tonight."

"Soon," she promised. "Your place or mine?"

"Ladies' choice."

"Yours, then. I like being in your bed."

He liked her being in his bed, too.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Karen knocked on Carlton's door at seven, wearing a sundress and sandals and carrying an overnight bag along with a carton of ice cream.

He let her in, gazing at her with obvious admiration, and she felt fresh and beautiful because of his expression. She knew she was alluring to him in ways she could only feel, not describe. She wasn't sure her ex-husband had ever made her feel that way, and certainly not in the last half of their marriage.

Carlton put the ice cream in the freezer and followed her into the bedroom—she'd only gone in to put her overnight bag down—but as soon as he came up behind her, he unzipped her dress, helping her out of it while also touching and caressing and generally making it clear that he wanted her.

Badly.

_Now_.

Turning, suddenly anxious for him, Karen hooked one leg over his hip, nibbling on his lower lip as he undid her bra, and they fell to the bed already completely out of control. She went after his shirt buttons despite his inability to stop kissing her, not that she could stop kissing him either.

Those amazing long-fingered hands, so warm, so nimble, were slipping under the waistband of her panties—his glorious blue eyes alight with fierce desire—when someone knocked forcefully on his front door.

"No," Karen moaned.

"Crap on a cracker," he muttered. "Don't you move."

As if Jell-O was ambulatory.

He buttoned up his shirt, ran shaking hands through his tousled hair, and strode off into the main room, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Curious, Karen got up and padded to the door, cracking it open just enough to be able to see into the living room. _Put your damned dress back on first, moron._ Obeying Ms. Common Sense, she slipped the dress back on over her head and returned to her post.

Juliet was standing in front of Carlton's loveseat, tense and obviously there to say her piece, whatever her piece was.

Karen knew she should not eavesdrop—the bond between partners was not to be screwed around with—but froze when Juliet said, "I'm sorry to barge in but I had to come tell you in person that I broke up with Shawn."

Carlton stared at her, surprised—so did Karen. "You… what? _Now_? I mean," he floundered, "what, uh, particular thing set you off?"

She stifled a laugh; he was so _not_ smooth sometimes.

Juliet sank down onto the loveseat, and Carlton sat beside her, his frown firmly in place. "I am the worst partner ever."

"The _hell_ you are," he shot back. "What happened?"

"Shawn did. I mean… look." Juliet sighed. "Of course you couldn't talk about your assignment while you were under, but I knew you'd tell me about it when you got back. And I told Shawn I was really happy you were home and I was looking forward to our lunch so we could catch up. But he followed me."

She seemed unusually stunned, Karen thought, considering how long she'd known Shawn.

"And because he followed me, you left. I missed out on my lunch with you. And then he told some dumbass lie about how he just _happened_ to be passing by, like I'm stupid or something." Now she was bitter. "He even stole your lunch. I was going to bring it over here, but no. He just couldn't resist the temptation."

Juliet wasn't looking at Carlton, but Karen was; he was so clearly struggling with what _not_ to say—his expression a cross between consternation and annoyance and an all-out effort at self-control. She could easily imagine his thoughts: _This is nothing new, O'Hara. This is what you signed on for. On some level, Shawn thinks everyone's stupid. Why are you shocked?_

"Then today," Juliet continued, glancing at him carefully, "when you texted me to say he followed you to the shooting range, I realized he got in the way of our partnership again. He pushed you into telling him something you hadn't even been able to tell me, your partner. He just… pushed. I… asked him what you said to each other."

Carlton's gaze grew shuttered; Karen knew that look well, and she felt a flash of pain on his behalf.

"I'm so sorry," Juliet whispered. "I'm so sorry that his nosiness, his relentless pushiness, made you reveal something so awful and so personal to someone who acts like he barely respects you. I'm sorry for myself that _I_ got shoved aside for his ego. And I'm sorry I've let you down so often this past year."

He passed a hand over his eyes, and Karen wondered if Juliet saw the tremor too. "O'Hara, you haven't—"

"I have," she insisted. "And this has been a wakeup call I wish I'd gotten a long time ago. Shawn can't honor boundaries. Not mine, not yours. Certainly not Gus's or Henry's. And the thing is, our partnership… no. You, Carlton. You have been steady and loyal and rock-solid for me and I would rather have that to depend on than continually fight to earn the basic respect a boyfriend shouldn't _have_ to be asked to show me and the people I care about."

Carlton was still struggling. "O'Hara. Juliet. You didn't have to do this for me. I'm nobody's prince and I've started trouble with Spencer as often as he did with me. It's not for me to—"

Juliet smiled. "Stop. You're… you're crabby and rude and sometimes incredibly insensitive, and God knows you can pick the wrong thing to say, and honestly I'm kinda weirded out by your issue with Olympia Dukakis, but you are, actually, a prince in my book. My partner. My friend. When you piss me off—and you _do_—you're not _trying_ to, and you apologize and we move on. You've already been in my adult life a lot longer than any other person and I am going to do everything I can to earn your trust back. I'm going to get back to being the partner you deserve."

"You're already a better partner than I deserve," he said simply.

"That's what you think." She half-smiled. "Anyway, I had it out with Shawn and told him that just like no one could come between him and Gus, I would never let anyone come between me and you, and for damn sure I'll never again get involved with anyone who has the nerve to mistreat my best friend."

Karen was touched, and could see Carlton was moved. It showed in the intense blue of his eyes, and when Juliet told him she was going to hug him before she left, he simply said okay and let her.

She closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed, musing about the effect Carlton didn't even know he had on people. When he returned to the bedroom, still stunned, he asked, "Did you hear all that?"

"Every word," she admitted.

He stood in front of her, a touch bewildered. "She broke up with Spencer."

"I know."

"Because of how he treated me."

"Yes."

"Karen."

"Yes?"

"That's… I mean… I always hoped for her sake that she'd dump him because of how he treated _her_. It never crossed my mind that she'd…" He trailed off.

"Place more value on her partner than on a flibbertigibbet boyfriend?"

He stared at her.

Silkily, she persisted, "You think you might want to revisit this idea you've got that nobody likes you much?"

A slow smile curved one corner of his mouth. "Dammit."

Karen laughed. "And now that she's single, are you going to pursue her?"

His eyebrows shot up before settling into a blessedly familiar scowl. "Only if she's running away from me with my Colt 45 in one hand and a fresh pot of coffee in the other."

Then he was on her, pressing her back to the bed, stopping her laughter with a hot and sensuous kiss.

"I told you not to move," he growled against her throat. "That included staying half-naked. Now I have to start all over."

"Practice makes perfect, baby." She was already out of breath, and pushed him onto his back, rapidly unbuttoning his shirt and exposing his lean furred chest. "You had your shot. My turn."

Carlton shifted underneath her, his arousal evident and fueling hers. "You're already perfect."

"Oooh, thank you for noticing."

He laughed and pulled her to him almost roughly, but the kiss was sweet and deep and delicious and led to more of the same, as well as removal of clothing and paroxysms of ecstasy.

Later, the ice cream turned out to be pretty good, too.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Despite its auspicious beginning, the night was pretty rough. Lassiter woke twice from the dream.

The first time, thankfully, he _didn't_ jackknife into a sitting position, so Karen slept through it—he'd worn her out, he admitted with well-earned male pride—but the second time, no such luck.

She soothed him, steadied him... _loved_ him, and feeling her warmth seemed to chase the demons away. For now.

But Iris would be home in ten days and they wouldn't be able to spend every night together. Karen wasn't going to be able to be with him the way he needed her, and he would _not_ force himself into young Iris' life too early just because of some stupid bad dreams.

And giving up sleep was clearly not an option, not if he ever wanted to return to work.

So.

Dr. Gentry.

Lassiter stood outside the office door, hesitating.

_You promised._

_And you need this._

He went in.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Karen was nervous. It was 9:37 and she couldn't concentrate on the stats she was supposed to be reviewing.

Carlton's session had been in progress for seven minutes.

Was he still there? Had he already stormed out?

9:40. _Oh, please, give the doctor a chance_.

Carlton admitted over breakfast—the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced—that he'd had two dreams. He saw no need to wake her the first time, and she didn't hold it against him, but at the same time it broke her heart that he still wanted to try to shield her from his pain.

9:44. _I hope not hearing from you is a good sign_.

She watched Juliet O'Hara walk by her door, and reflected a moment on her visit to Carlton's last night. How ironic—the start of one relationship bookending the failure of another.

Juliet would be all right. She was a resilient, optimistic, open-minded young woman, and despite all the ways Shawn may have seemed different from other men—that he was "fun" or simply a change from the ordinary—in the end he simply hadn't been willing to compromise, adapt or respect. Karen was glad Juliet could finally see it.

As for Shawn, well—what? He was 36. Juliet was no doubt the best thing he'd had going in a long time, but his deeply-held belief that he'd never have to grow up had just cost him their relationship.

9:47. _Please, Carlton. Give this a chance_.

**. . . . **

**. . .**

Dr. Gentry was about Lassiter's age, genial and forthright.

Lassiter did not immediately dislike him, and he didn't mind the large tank of tropical fish swimming languidly amid bright green fake seaweed and multi-colored rocks. The tank was behind the doctor to the left, easy to observe. He assumed it was meant to be calming.

Well, that was all right. He could stand some calming.

He also did not immediately feel as if the man was a quack. So far so good.

He had brown eyes, reminiscent of Karen's in that they were perceptive and non-judgmental, and right now he was studying Lassiter most curiously.

"Let's get a few housekeeping details out of the way," he said. "First, I want you to know that when Dr. Erlich refers patients to me, we don't exchange much information beyond the relevant files. But he did tell me you were… resistant to the concept of psychotherapy."

Lassiter raised one eyebrow.

Gentry was amused. "I'll take that as agreement. It's all right. I've found that most police officers feel the same way."

Lassiter could imagine.

"They're often concerned that admitting how their jobs affect them could cause those jobs to be taken away from them."

_Yeah. Well. That's true._

When Lassiter made no response, Gentry smiled broadly and continued, "Don't worry. When I start asking you about your feelings, it's only going to be in the context of helping you learn to process them, and we'll only discuss your childhood or your mother if you want to."

"I'm perfectly happy to _never_ discuss my mother."

Gentry laughed. "Duly noted. All right, Detective—though I'd rather call you Carlton if you don't mind?"

He shrugged. So few people called him by his first name that it was kind of a novelty.

"Carlton. As you know, a standard psych evaluation is given to all police officers who've been undercover or experienced any kind of trauma. In your case, I see your extended assignment unfortunately led to your imprisonment."

"Yes."

The doctor's gaze was dispassionate, and Lassiter felt well and truly studied—but not in a critical or 'you're weird' way. Interesting. He still didn't dislike him.

"Well, let's start there. I'd like you to pretend—" He held up a hand when he noticed Lassiter's immediate scowl. "I'd like you pretend you're filing a police report. Just give me the facts of what happened, so that I understand the chain of events. You'll probably find it easier to get the whole story across that way."

Okay. He could do that. Maybe this guy wouldn't need throttling.

He gave him a simplistic overview of his assignment and the setting. He described without superlatives of any type the day that Zach Boyles and his team forced him out of his boat and into the concrete block building (covering the fist fight between points A and B with "there was a struggle").

He got through the bare-bones description of the conditions of the cell: dirt floor, piles of woodchips, commode best left _un_described, that damned pine tree air freshener dangling mockingly from the ceiling. The two openings high up in the opposite walls.

The corresponding dim light which became zero light at night.

The shackle. The post.

The chain.

Yeah. The chain.

Lunch. Punches to the face and gut every day. He landed a few of his own but never enough to count; they knew the length of the chain and stayed out of reach, laughing.

Day five.

Here he paused.

Dr. Gentry watched him, still without judgment and yet, unless Lassiter was mistaken, there was compassion in his eyes.

He didn't know whether to despise him or be grateful.

_This is for Karen._

_Oh, hell. This is for _me_, or else Karen might not stick around._

Day five. Deep breath.

"Fallon came in mid-afternoon with the obvious intention of either killing me or making me wish he had."

_Maybe he should have… no. Stop._

"I knew I had to save myself, and I managed to wrap the chain around his neck."

The room was getting colder.

"I knew I was going to kill him."

Heartbeat louder.

"I knew he was going to die at my hand. I would be a killer."

Dr. Gentry shook his head slightly.

Lassiter tried it again. "I knew I… would be someone who killed another person in anger. To survive."

Gentry was still. "Go on."

"Boyles came in. Flung the door open and pointed a gun at us. Shot and killed Fallon."

Pause to breathe. _Why was it hard to breathe?_

"Was he aiming at you?"

"At first I couldn't tell, but the bullet struck Fallon in the temple and at that range, it had to be intentional." He stopped. A memory of blood, dead weight, and Boyles' silhouette.

The doctor's expression changed, as if he knew the reason for—as if he saw it all himself—Lassiter's hesitation. "And then what happened?"

Swallow. Breathe. "He called the other two to remove Fallon's body. I… I was already on my knees because when Fallon… died, his weight carried us both down. I got the chain off his neck and backed away. Barlow and Paymer came and got him."

"Anyone say anything?"

"Boyles said Fallon had been nothing but trouble in the camp and good riddance. He also said I should remember he'd saved my life."

"Interesting. And the others?"

"Nothing." They'd spoken with their eyes, and it was all hate.

Gentry waited a few moments.

Lassiter soldiered on. "Boyles locked me back in. The next day, Barlow and Paymer came back. They had water but no food. They wanted revenge, and took turns hitting me."

"You fought back?"

He watched the blue fish swim from side to side for a moment. "No."

"Because you were restrained?"

Now the golden fish. "No."

Gentry nodded. "All right."

"Day seven," he said impassively. "Half-ration of food. Water, one body blow. Day eight, Boyles came in mid-morning by himself and got a good look at me. At noon he came back with Paymer and made sure I got food and water."

"Did he say anything? Offer medical treatment?"

Lassiter almost laughed, but it was too much effort. "No."

"Okay. Did anything else happen that day?"

"No. And on day nine, the CBI moved in. They found me at noon."

There. Done. He let out a breath, and yet was not relieved.

"But wait, there's more, as they say," Dr. Gentry said mildly. "Isn't there?"

_Well, damn you to hell_. He kept quiet.

"You've told me what happened. Now I'd like to talk about what you _experienced_."

Lassiter wasn't fooled. "You mean my feelings. Which we weren't going to talk about."

"Much," Dr. Gentry qualified. "What I mean is, what _happened_ is that you were shorted on food. What you experienced was...?"

"Hunger." He tried not to roll his eyes.

"Right. And what _happened_ is you were... beaten, and what you experienced was...?"

"Pain," Lassiter said impatiently. "Yes, I get it."

But the doctor wasn't finished. "What happened was that the man trying to kill you was instead killed as he stood next to you. What you experienced is..."

Lassiter felt the edge of anger. "What I experienced is his blood on my face and clothes. What I experienced is him dying in a split second while I was still in the middle of a raging fight for my life. What I experienced was having to unravel the chain keeping _me_ prisoner from the neck of a dead man." He got up out of the chair, stalking around the room, raking his hand through his hair.

His head was aching. He was so damned tired.

Gentry leaned back in his chair, just watching him. "Okay, we'll come back to that. Let me ask you another question, Carlton. Since you came home, how have you been?"

"How have I been," Lassiter muttered. "How the _hell_ have I been." He stalked back to the chair. "Okay. You want to know how I've been? I'll tell you. I got two things going on. One is great. One is fan-freakin'-tastic, and it's called love. The other is that I can't get through the night without raging nightmares, and that means I don't sleep. I hope to God you're not going to ask me how I _experience_ that."

He was used to alienating people when he was pissed off, but Dr. Gentry was apparently no stranger to bad tempers, because he only smiled. In fact, he seemed even more relaxed now. Sympathetic. Nonjudgmental. And like none of this was in the least bit unusual or rubber-room-worthy.

Dammit. _Dammit_. Lassiter was starting to actually like this guy.

"Why didn't you fight back when the two men beat you the day after Fallon was killed?"

_Okay, maybe not._

Looking at the blue fish again, watching it dodge around one of those bug-eyed black goldfish, Lassiter sighed. "I didn't want to."

"Because...?"

"Because I felt... _damn_ you... I felt... I _feel_ responsible for Fallon's death."

"Why? You didn't kill him."

"I would have."

"But you didn't. Do you think you would feel this guilty if he'd died at your hand before Boyles ever arrived?"

"No," he said flatly. "I'd have been dead as soon as Boyles walked in."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Get used to disappointment," he muttered.

Gentry actually laughed. "It's an old friend. Why do you feel guilty? Your choices were few: kill or be killed. Boyles removed the choice, and you're alive."

There was another blue fish in the tank, this one with stripes. Lassiter watched the fish and steadied his breathing.

"What do you dream about?"

His head hurt.

"Try the police report approach."

Focus.

_You can do this. You've done a lot of things you never thought you could do, including somehow winning the heart of Karen Vick by being your own dysfunctional self_.

_Just start talking. _

_Preferably today, asshat._

"Mostly images. Me, Fallon, blood. Blood everywhere. Like the place is filling with it. Boyles in the doorway. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes aiming at me after he shoots Fallon, telling me it's my fault." He was talking fast, but he didn't know how to slow down. "It feels like pressure on my chest. Like Fallon collapsing is choking me. Like the chain's around my neck instead. Sometimes Fallon's got the upper hand and _I'm_ about to die and Boyles comes in and shoots us both, saying remember I saved your life, remember I saved your life, remember I freaking saved your life." He was on his feet somehow and his voice was loud and angry and Gentry simply listened as he barreled on, "I feel guilty because I don't feel guilty enough that Fallon's dead. I feel relief that Boyles killed him and it makes me sick because I've spent my whole career trying to stop what men like Boyles and Fallon do and it only took me five days and being hungry to sink to their level."

He stopped. Cold.

Gentry nodded. "Okay."

"What? Okay? What do you mean, okay?"

"I mean," he said calmly, "okay, now we have a place to start."

Lassiter sank back into the chair, fighting back the trembling in his hands and legs.

"Tell you what. Let's talk about your love life now."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Karen poured coffee into her mug, trying not to check her watch. She stirred creamer in, trying not to check her watch.

"Hey, Chief," Juliet said cheerfully. "Got a minute for something sort of but not completely connected to work?"

"Certainly." She tried not to look at her watch. "My office?"

Juliet followed her in, but didn't sit in the guest chair. "This won't take long."

_Too bad. I'm trying not to look at my watch._

"I wanted to let you know Shawn and I broke up. I also wanted to say that I'm aware I haven't been the best partner for Carlton this past year, and I intend to do better starting now."

Karen blinked. "Okay. I'm sorry about…" Well, she wasn't really. Not that she wanted either Juliet or Shawn to suffer, but their relationship _had_ been doomed. "You know," she finished lamely. "But I'm sure Carlton has no complaints about—"

"Remember when he wanted a new partner?" Juliet interrupted dryly. "That was all me. It was because I concealed my relationship from him and then acted like _he_ was wrong to be upset about it. I was a coward."

"Oh. Is that why he polygraphed you?"

"Yes. And yes, that was completely outrageous but if I'd been honest with him from the start, he never would have had to go that far."

"In your defense," Karen said carefully, "I can see why you were reluctant to tell him you were dating Shawn of all people."

Juilet sighed. "Honestly, Chief, there's a part of me that's ready to admit I was reluctant to tell _anyone_ I was dating Shawn of all people." She gave her a crooked smile. "But yeah. Shawn's been a thorn in his side for years and I knew it wouldn't go over well, and rather than man up and tell him anyway, I skulked around until it all blew up."

"Live and learn, then."

"Yeah, I guess. And one more thing." She did sit now, perching on the edge of the chair. "I got from Shawn a little of what Carlton went through on this assignment. Is he okay? I mean, really?"

"What I told you last week was true. Physically, yes, he's fine. Or he will be."

Juliet's dark blue eyes were full of concern. "And psychologically?"

Karen turned her coffee cup around slowly. "I think he will be. He's dealing with it."

"You've been able to talk to him more than I have." Juliet's tone was even and her expression neutral.

Karen felt tired in the way that Carlton had been looking tired. "I've been lucky."

Juliet tilted her head, confused. "Come again?"

Screw it; she had to look at her watch. 10:15.

"I'm lucky to be someone he trusts like he trusts you. We're in a small group, you and I."

"We are," Juliet agreed with a smile, and rose. "Did you know he thought I put everyone up to being nice to him the other day?"

Karen laughed. "He accused me of the same thing."

"He seriously thinks no one likes him?"

"Man's got self-esteem issues," she said lightly.

Juliet rolled her eyes. "You can say that again."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Were all the men arrested when the CBI moved in?"

"Almost. Boyles escaped."

He'd gotten through the love-life questions with a minimum of discomfort. He'd had to admit—first demanding that Gentry reiterate the doctor-patient confidentiality golden rule—that Karen was The Woman in his life, because it was going to get too convoluted to explain the certainty of his feelings if he had to pretend she wasn't on the force.

Gentry again showed no censure. He'd seen Karen on TV a few times and volunteered that she seemed like an intelligent, capable, attractive woman, and the best relationships usually began with friendship and a deep understanding of each other.

But now he was back on point, as if letting Lassiter stumble through an admission of his feelings for Karen had been some kind of respite.

_No, doc. Karen is the respite. Talking about Karen like a lovestruck nerdy teenager? That's just idiotic._

"Does it bother you that Boyles escaped?"

"Of course it bothers me. He's a murdering drug dealer. I don't want anyone like that running loose."

"No," Gentry said patiently. "Do you feel personally threatened by Boyles being at large?"

Lassiter frowned. "No. Why would I?"

"You're a witness to his murder of Fallon, for one thing. And he's been in your nightmares for the last few days."

He was still flummoxed. "Are you asking if I'm _afraid_ of Boyles? No. I have no reason to be afraid of him."

Now Gentry's eyebrows rose. "Why not?"

"He's no threat, that's why. He's on the run, he knows the CBI has his number, his photo's in every post office and his key players are all behind bars. Coming after me would be stupid and pointless. He's no threat to me because I'm no threat to him—at least, no more threat than any other cop hunting for him."

"But you're having nightmares about him."

Lassiter retorted, "So? Technically I'm having nightmares about Fallon too, but I don't think _he's_ coming after me either."

Gentry looked surprised, and then laughed. "Well. That is a remarkably healthy outlook, Carlton."

"Thanks. Now what?"

"All right. Now we get to why you're here. Not why you have to be here, but why you actually showed up. What you hope to get out of these sessions."

"Sessions?"

Dr. Gentry smiled. "Yes. Sessions."

Lassiter folded his arms across his chest. "Figures. Well, I'll tell you why I showed up. I want to _sleep_. I want to stop waking up in terror so my girlfriend won't think I'm going insane and leave me."

_My girlfriend. Yeah, baby._

He knew he was smiling, and damn it all, he definitely did _not_ dislike Dr. Gentry.

The doctor was once again amused. "I think I can help you with that, Carlton. It might take a little time, and yes, you'll be forced to talk about feelings and experiences again, but as long as you don't fight me, I _can_ help you."

"Good." Very damned good. But he had to be honest, because Karen would want it. "I can't... promise I won't... fight you a _little_."

Gentry laughed. "That's why I love my job. Now is there anything we need to touch on today about your mother?"

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Busy?_

Karen grabbed the phone and could not type fast enough: _Never too busy for you._

_What are you doing for lunch?_

_You?_

_Question mark? Meaning it could be someone else?_

_Oh, no. No one else. Ever._

_So what are you doing for lunch?_

_YOU._

Karen called him, not willing to wait longer to hear his voice.

"I was just answering your text," he said. "Didn't want you to think I was playing hard to get."

"How did it go? How do you—""

"_Don't_ ask me how I feel," he interrupted. "But I feel okay, and I think I like the guy. He says you're hot."

"What?" she screeched.

Carlton laughed. "He's seen you on TV. He said you look like a nice woman and I'm a damned lucky guy."

"He did not."

"Well, maybe not the last part, but it was in his eyes. The man is dead jealous of me."

"Carlton," she warned. "I'm about to come through the phone and throttle you."

"Okay. Does it have to be my neck?"

She lost it then, dissolving into laughter she had to stifle when Dobson glanced into her office as he passed. "Bastard. Are we having lunch or not? I have a meeting at three but I'm clear up until then."

"Oh… did you want to _eat_?"

His tone was very seductive, and she shifted in her chair. "Well, nothing you could find on a standard menu, and stop driving me nuts. Just meet me at my house at noon. Can you do that, smartass?"

"I can do that, boss." He paused. "And then I can do _you_."

"Thank God," she muttered.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter read through the texts again, smiling. _No one else, ever,_ she'd sent.

No one else, ever. Yeah… sounded about right to him.

He just had to get over the nightmares, not resume his Angry Old Man persona when he went back to work, get Iris to like him, and somehow, somehow, not screw up to any degree which would cause Karen to change her mind about him.

Might be a _lot_ of sessions with Dr. Gentry coming up.

He was waiting on the stone bench outside Karen's house when she pulled in, and went to meet her at the car.

Mindful of her nosy neighbors, she only smiled and walked with him up to the door, but as soon as she had it unlocked and they were inside, she flung her arms around his neck and whispered, "Take me right now."

He was damned happy to hear that, and already aroused. "Your bed or the daybed?"

She considered for three seconds. "Daybed. Closer."

She managed to shed most of her clothing on the way down the hall, but then so did he. In the little office, standing by the bed, he removed her bra while kissing her; she didn't help but she most assuredly did not hinder either.

Resting her forearms languidly on his shoulders while he shimmied her panties off, she seemed perfectly content to let him expose her to the cool air of this private place, and when he kissed her mouth again, searching out her heat, she pressed herself to him head to toe, clinging everywhere it was most maddening for her to cling.

Lassiter eased them both down onto the bed, where she admonished him for still having his pants on, but he took care of that problem and went back to kissing her. Over and over, deeper and deeper… harder and hungrier. Just kissing. It was the purest form of connection, kissing Karen, his heartbeat against her heartbeat.

"I love you," she gasped against his mouth.

_I feel it_, he thought, but couldn't stop kissing her long enough to say it back.

But her movements underneath him—undulations, pressing, flat-out squirming—led him to kiss other parts of her soft, tempting flesh, and soon enough he took her hard, pinning her hands up by her shoulders with his, relentlessly plundering that which had been given to him so freely, but making damn sure her pleasure was first, foremost, and long-lasting.

Lungfuls of air later, and still half-lying on her, he said, "Lunch was served."

Karen laughed, still gasping, and he smoothed her hair off her damp face. "Don't forget to tip your waitstaff."

"I'll be here all week," he said with a grin. "Or until Iris comes home anyway."

She smiled. "She's going to like you."

"How do you know?" He rolled off her, onto his back, but kept hold of her hand, bringing it to his mouth for a kiss.

"Because _I_ like you. And she knows you're the one who was there when she was born. She's seen your picture and she's seen you on TV too."

"Poor thing," he muttered, and she thumped him in the arm with her free hand. "Ow?"

She climbed on top of him, which he really _really_ liked. Karen in post-orgasm-glow was stunning, and the naked part was heap big fun too. "Did you know my ex was a little jealous of you?"

"The hell? _Why_?"

"Because you were there when he couldn't be. Because every time you were on TV, Iris said excitedly 'there's Carlton!' and it drove him nuts."

He was incredulous. "You mainly wanted to pop me upside the head that day. What the hell could you have said about it to make him jealous?"

Karen smiled. "That you were there instead of him. It wasn't his fault he couldn't make it; we all knew that. I never blamed him for my body's bad timing. Well. At least not _after_ she was born. And even though I did want to pop you, don't forget I was in labor at the time. I forgave you pretty fast and it meant a lot to me that you stuck around later."

Lassiter said sheepishly, "I couldn't pick her out of a roomful of babies when she was in the nursery, but holding her… that was…" He trailed off. It was something he'd never forget, and something he in all likelihood would never get to do again. Age did bite.

Trailing her fingertips down his chest, making him shiver, she said, "I could see it in your eyes."

"Damned eyes," he groused.

"Beautiful eyes," she corrected.

"Hardly. They're just blue and oversized."

Karen laughed. "They're gorgeous. A panoply of shifting colors with every emotion, from anger to boredom to disbelief to… love." She sighed. "Much love."

Lassiter caught her hand and kissed it. "You have no idea."

"You have plenty of time to make it clear," she assured him. "How did your session really go?"

"It really went okay. He doesn't think I should be locked up."

Sighing suddenly, she leaned forward and rested her head on his shoulder. "Carlton. You went through something horrific. It's not supposed to be that easy to get over it."

"It doesn't have to be easy. It just has to be possible." He stroked her hair, and tilted her head back to kiss her.

Karen touched his beard. "All things are possible, and I'm going to miss this beard."

"I don't know that I am," he said, and her brown eyes reflected surprise. "It's been nice having people react so positively to it, but I can't help thinking it's not… real. Like I've been hiding under it."

"It's only Wednesday," she pointed out. "You came to work for half an hour. I wouldn't say you'd been hiding."

"From the man in the mirror, maybe."

"You think everything's going to be different if you shave?"

Lassiter shrugged. "We'll find out."

Karen grasped his jaw. "Do you think _I'm_ going to be different if you shave?"

He met her gaze. "No."

"You know I was falling for you when you were a voice on the phone. It wasn't the _beard_ which pushed me over the edge."

"For me, it was definitely the Genesis t-shirt." He laughed when she thumped him again, grabbing her arm and pulling her closer. "All I know," he whispered, "is I love you. I want to get to know Iris. I want to be in your life. I want to tempt fate by sleeping with my boss as often as possible. I want to… take _chances_ with you. I want to learn to be someone you can always be proud of, Karen, and I…" He sighed. "I don't deserve you, but I'm so grateful I seem to have you."

"Oh, Carlton. You deserve far more than you think you do, and you most definitely have me." She pressed herself to him and slipped her fingers into his hair, nibbling on his lower lip as she undulated against his increasingly aroused body. "We," she managed, "are going to be just fine. Mark my words."

"Yeah?" he managed; difficult when her tongue kept tangling with his.

"Yeah. Mark. My. Words."

"Let me get my pen," he growled, and flipped her onto her back for more.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

** EPILOGUE**

Karen glanced across the room at her husband. He was talking to the deputy mayor, being polite with barely an edge of get-me-the-hell-out-of-here in his body language, and from here she could see his blue eyes clearly.

He turned his black and silver head her way, meeting her gaze as if he'd felt her looking at him, which he probably had. His smile was faint but promising, one dark brow raised as if to say _I'll catch up with you later, my pretty_.

She felt familiar goosebumps and with great difficulty resumed paying attention to the councilman in front of her, explaining that they couldn't put extra patrols on only the streets of his neighborhood (where no crimes had been reported in two years). He was of the opinion that it was sensible and preventative. Karen was of the opinion that he was insensible and a dumbass. Giving him a completely insincere smile along with her thanks for his suggestion, she turned to make a rapid exit, and walked straight into Carlton.

"Hello, Chief." His voice was low and his hand on her arm warm and possessive.

"Stop with the bedroom eyes," she warned.

"I told you a year ago, they're just blue and oversized. Nothing special." He was guiding her toward the room exit.

"You're full of crap, and where are we going?"

"Home to pay the sitter, check that Iris is asleep, and then, I don't know, maybe catch some Zs?"

Karen grinned. "Oh? No crazy monkey love?"

"Sorry. Forgot to pay the monkey rent again."

She laughed, letting him escort her firmly all the way down the grand hall to the main exit, but just outside, she stopped at the equally grand fountain to admire the water and lights.

Carlton stood behind her, arms around her waist. "Happy one month anniversary," he murmured against her throat, making her shiver.

A month since they'd married; a year since she'd brought him home from his mission.

Nearly a year since she'd (re)introduced him to Iris, who said he was funny when he was mad (but he never got mad at her) (confused and bewildered quite often, but never mad).

Ten months since he'd confided to Juliet that he and Karen were involved.

Seven months since Juliet began dating a very nice professor, a guy even Carlton liked (after the obligatory background check which made Juliet throw her wastebasket at him).

He was still seeing Dr. Gentry, but only once a month now. The insurance company wasn't paying for the sessions anymore but Carlton had chosen to continue on his own dime, calling it an investment on his own future—their future. The nightmares faded after six or seven weeks; he still had the occasional bad dream but she believed him when he said they were nothing compared to the originals.

Six months since Zach Boyles had been captured up the coast—the murder of Donny Fallon was a mere drop in the bucket of his worries by then—bringing the mission to a complete close at last.

Eleven and a half months since he'd shaved, and unlike Samson, he didn't lose his "powers" along with the hair. In fact, and with great reluctance, he had admitted to her that maybe _some_ people… definitely not all… did in fact like him… but probably just a little… and they might only be confused.

She'd thwapped him with a pillow in response.

He'd liberated her from her clothing in retribution, but really, it seemed fair at the time.

Now, on this moonlit night by the fountain, Karen leaned back against him, sighing. "Happy _everything_, Carlton."

He kissed her earlobe. "Mmmm, yes. Thank you for marrying me."

"Well, I had to. How else was I going to stop you from becoming an Angry Old Man?"

"You took one for the team." He squeezed her waist, and she turned in his arms to kiss him.

"_We_ are the team, Carlton." She kissed him again, trailing her fingers along his clean-shaven face, loving his eyes and his skin and his soft hair and really everything else about him too.

"Yeah," he said, his smile so tender and his eyes a cerulean blue she couldn't resist. "We are."

"So what about that crazy monkey love?"

"I don't know where we're going to get a fresh batch of monkeys at this hour, but sure," he agreed, and covered her willing mouth with his, stopping her laughter and making her heart race.

And her knees week and her legs like Jell-O and every nerve ending on fire.

"Maybe we should just be alone," she suggested.

"That kind of brilliant thinking is why you're the Chief of Police, you know." He grasped her hand and pulled her rapidly toward the car.

_It's also why I have you_, she thought happily. _Or maybe it's just good timing and dumb luck_.

Either way, it was all exactly… _right_.

**. . . . . .**

**. . . .**

**E N D**

**. . . .**

**. . . . . .**


End file.
